Anxiety

Is the rust scraping off of the garage door

Whisper-shouting its way up the carpeted stairs to your ears

 

Is the coarse, grimy taste of sandpaper against the back of your eyes

Because one more assignment needs to be scanned with an obsidian, fine-toothed comb.

 

Anxiety

Is the fingertips of insanity tugging on your unraveling wool sweater vest

Causing your memories to run out your ears, squelching like mud under the pads of your feet.

 

Is when even the other side of the pillow is too cool for you, deep-freezing your will to sleep

The rickety fan overhead hisses in tandem with the dog-eared books sprawled on the floor.

 

Anxiety

Is the moment right after the single-panel door is slammed shut firing a cool breeze

Off of the thin, burlap curtains, that fold into themselves, vengeful fabric origami.

 

Is laying facedown on darkened cedar floors before the sun comes up

The glow of an open laptop from a granite counter painting a picture like stained glass and ice.

 

Anxiety

Is gazing around the classroom, making no eye contact, and knowing you can’t write

The sea-salt feeling of discontent in the back of your throat, making you sicker and sicker and

 

You can’t see and hear and taste and touch and smell what’s right in front of your face.

Because…

Well, because there’s no time for that.

Get to work on something important.