The walls are leaning inward, though the level says they’re straight,
And the air feels thick and heavy, like a physical, dull weight.
It’s a static in the marrow, it’s a ringing in the ears,
A list of “what-ifs” blooming into catastrophic fears.
The door feels like a mountain, and the phone a jagged stone,
The mind builds up a prison that it’s crafted all alone.

But the kettle starts its humming, and the clock begins to chime,
The world doesn’t pause its spinning just to give me extra time.
So I breathe a shallow rhythm, count the floorboards near my feet,
And find the tiny pocket where the fear and duty meet.
It isn’t that the shaking stops or shadows go away,
It’s the shaking hands that reach out to begin the work of day.

I carry it like luggage—bulky, frayed, and overfilled,
Across the bridge of “must-do,” where the panic isn’t stilled.
I take a single, trembling step, then find the strength for two,
Doing all the things I need, while the fear is coming through.
For courage isn’t silence where the anxious thoughts are gone,
It’s the shivering soul that tells itself: regardless, carry on.

More Works by Nancy Ann Creed

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