My last post talked about me having all these words screaming in my ears, begging to write them down, how my mind was already ready to dive in to the next project.

I just have one problem right now: Anxiety and OCD in some kind of weird uproar.

The words scramble to reach my fingertips, but they get caught in my throat, trapped in my ribcage, plastered against my eyelids. They make me feel like ants are crawling under my skin, tensing every muscle in me. I ache, and I stretch, and I promise them I’ll give them the time of day. Later. I’ll feed them. Later. Right now, I’m cycling through my Facebook feed for the 500th time today, while my anxiety keeps the words company. It riles the writhing masses. While my OCD clouds the path; I can make out the shapes of the letters, but I don’t know what the words are. “I’ve got a story, damn it!” But I’m too busy getting in my own way.

Some day soon, surely the fog will clear. Surely I’ll be done fighting myself. Surely…

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