nerves on nerves

My anxiety seeps through all things,  

like the scent of a Laundromat,  

a fragrance I’ve longed to find,  

yet no fabric softener captures  

the mingling smell of all detergents

that blankets your local Laundromat—

As though I’m creeping toward the edge of madness,
        even when I’m in the shower,
        driving to work, grocery shopping,
        cooking dinner, eating it,
        making the bed, slipping into it,
        setting my alarm, awaking again—
Like I’m stretched tight on a medieval

rack, two breaths before the pain hits, but

then again it may not come. That's edge of insanity.

So those around me sense my anxiety too:  

the relentless ticking of the clock,  

the earth spinning wild beneath our feet,  

the hollow drop of a stomach,  

as if the world itself is unraveling,

but somehow only through me.