The fear may be starting up again. A thought while lying in bed about how I might feel when knowing myself to be dying is quickly repudiated, but it interrupted my sleep at 5 am for an hour or two and caused me to sleep in in the morning instead of meeting friends for breakfast.
The fear may be starting up again. Unlabeled anxiety pays a brief visit then lurks just offstage, waiting for its next cue. My bowels clutch and loosen with no apparent cause.
The fear may be starting up again. The fear that sent my appetite away for most of a year about a decade ago, so that I lost so much weight I was certain I was dying of cancer.
The fear may be starting up again. I cower in my home, glued to the couch, afraid of some unspecified bad thing happening to me if I go out into the world. But I do go out, at least several days a week, when I stumble into a reason that seems worthwhile, and I've survived so far.
The panics and loss of appetite haven't appeared, yet. Maybe the Prozac will continue to keep them at bay; maybe not.
I cast about for triggers. Maybe the short days are still weighing on me. Maybe my sedentary habits are getting to me.
Does it even matter how I feel? Not so much in the context of lead poisoning, random shootings, massive waves of refugees from war, terrorism, and gangs. Anxiety is small potatoes in the great scheme of things.
But still I am limited by this filter on my vision, this source of paralysis, the paper barrier between me and accomplishments. The barrier that looks like a brick wall, but crumbles when I put my foot through it. I know this barrier is soft; I've stepped through it again and agaiin. But it still takes me so long to get up the nerve to step through it. The courage to step over the edge of my stifling but safe nest. The willingness to act again against the cocoon of fear.
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