I’m deep in my writing: my heart’s racing, my ideas are flowing, then I get anxiety. My finger tremors over the letter “F”. My brain jumps to my flaws and it’s like I’m standing on moving blocks in a puzzle room. I jump from flaw to flaw, keeping pace with the rythm so I don’t fall into the endless pit below. Each flash triggers another moving piece: from failures, to embarassment, then to my weight. I linger on my weight like my attention onto a crash scene: I can’t help pausing to watch the mad hero rush. But there is no hero here; I have to save myself. I slowly breathe in a little air for the pockets of disappointment to fill with the Saturday night Alaska sun.

Cool and calm in a tank top now; the sweater discarded onto the bed. Every movement slows to the pace of my tired brain. Fog envelopes my mind. All that’s left to do is to lay down, then let the bedroom ease me to sleep.