Cliche and unimportant:
the worries of a perpetual
spaz who cannot let go
of "her control" of the world.

Because, for her,
reality has a firm place
in her calloused palm,
while she truly plays
puppeteer to the hand dealt
to her each day.

With every interaction,
emotion, situation and the like,
she's pushed farther.
Farther away from "the plan"
and closer to where
she should be.

Why, then, is it so bad?
Why, then, does anxiety creep?
When control, fickle like the weather,
escapes so easily from her grasp.