The Werewolf

Anxiety is an itch you can’t scratch.

The more you think about the itch, the more it itches.

 Prickle, tingle—your skin crawls.

 Anxiety—a relentless itch in your brain.

Anxiety is a sneeze you can’t stop.

You feel it coming in the back of your nose.

 Breath halts, lips curl, you raise your elbow for cover.

 Anxiety--a sneeze you can’t stop in your brain.

Anxiety is a coffee overload.

 Your hands tremble, waves of heat and cold run up and down your back.

 Heart races, face flushes-- you jump out of your skin.

 Anxiety—caffeine shaking and leaping in your brain.

Anxiety is an eyelash in your eye.

You feel the scrape with every blink.

You squint in the mirror, pull top lid over bottom, still there.

Anxiety—a loose eyelash scraping in your brain.

Anxiety is a dental drill.

 You’re laid out, mouth open, tube sucking, cotton wads soaking.

The screaming drill penetrates your eardrums. “Are you comfortable?” the voice asks.

Anxiety—a dental drill screeching in your brain.

Anxiety is a spider crawling on your wall.

It creeps, you swat, you miss, lamp crashes.

Unaware, she begins her web in a ceiling corner.

Anxiety—a spider spinning her web in your brain.  

Anxiety is a werewolf you become.

It hides, angry, sullen, alone.

Until your teeth become its fangs ready to attack, your hair its fur, on end.

Anxiety—yourself no more, personality gone, brain lost.