I've got 50 states of panic.
They're all moshing in the pit of my stomach.
I've got arthritis is my voice so I only have a certain range of communication,
I tend to lock up at the most terrible time, getting stuck on the joint of wanting to tell everybody everything all at once.

Just like the old man across the street.
The warden of his disease forces him to have all lights off by 9:30.  
If the lights still show by 10:00 we call to see if his disease escaped his prison.
The stutter at the end of the line gives us back our breath that we've been holding onto for so long.
I bet he lost track of time flipping through pictures of his sweet Joan.
I think he wants to cross over onto the next street just to hold her hand.

My 50th state of panic is that no one will call if my light is left on a little too long.