Anxiety

 Anxiety is an itch you can never scratch, 

So you dig your nails into other things you can, 

Pulling off scabs and picking at your cuticles, 

Flaking off dry skin in the winter, 

Peeling your sunburns in the summer, 

All the while feeling like the thing that really needs scratching

Is somewhere deep inside and there's no way to find relief. 

So, you scratch at the walls of security, 

Trying to find cracks that you create with your frantic searching. 

You scratch at the walls of your calming hobbies, 

Worrying about what drives you to do the things you do. 

You throw all the grit you can into the empty hole inside you, 

Hoping that some of it will rub against the edges and soothe your raw nerves. 

You drum your fingers on the table. 

You fidget with gadgets and doodads to keep yourself busy. 

You fervently ignore the increasing volume of the whistling pressure

As the seams start to leak and the structure starts to crack.

You worry about your worrying which worries you to no end. 

And your tank runs dry as your wheels spin and you go nowhere.