I wish I could write it out write out this fear. Leech it from my blood onto the page. Strip it from my bones and become free. I’m sick of being sick, sick at heart, brain sick, soul sick, inexplicable, irreparable illness that steals my days and day by day is taking years. I fear fear itself, the waves and vicious eddies of distress that drag me down and toss me up without regard for harm or loss or time. It comes upon me slow and sneaking sudden and savage, and robs me like a magpie of every shiny thing I would make mine, or the pleasure I might have had of it. I want back every word stolen as it sought to leave my mouth, every smile curbed, every beating pulse of desire curdled, and aspiration stripped and defeated. I want removed every inch of space that has grown between myself and my loves and my world. I want my self returned. I am ill with the thought and strain of the unrelenting cycle of waking to dread, of living off-balance, of slipping into bed unsure. I am losing traction. I don’t want to let go.