Worry courses through my veins.

Like a demon nobody summoned: it’s there, in my blood.

Worry leers at me from around corners. It stalks me in the night.

Worry touches everything; it even makes me doubt the words I write are right.

What right does worry have to stalk me in this way?

It’s an elongated shadow, sharp teeth gnawing at my nerves.

My nerves like elevator cables, my psyche is suspended.

What victory does worry seek?

Hope, a small bird, flaps around in the air ducts. I can tell the bird is lost, I can hear its body thump against the manufactured metal.

One tunnel will lead the bird to freedom and yet it is afraid; for in every other air vent there are quickly spinning blades.

And who am I? A human trapped between a goblin and a dove, unable to control either. Unable to control anything.

Worry courses through my veins.