And sometimes I have kept my feelings to myself, because I could find no language to describe them in.
— Jane Austen, from Sense and Sensibility
I wish I could let this coursing anxiety leak out of me. Slowly. An extra orifice that drips fear like a fresh nosebleed or that little dribble of drool that escapes when your mind wanders and your throat forgets to do its job.
There’d be just enough leakage to quell the senseless panic that grips my heart and squeezes, squeezes till I feel a physical ache disrupting the rhythm that keeps me alive.
I’d keep a bucket under it, to avoid spillage. (Surely nervousness stains like the dickens, right? I bet it does.) And I’d empty that bucket twice a day, at least. Not just because of the sheer amount of angst pouring out, but because I’m clumsy and too likely to spill.