packing_and_panicking ovenbird I always pack my anxiety when I travel, or maybe it sneaks into the luggage when I’m not looking. It’s always sitting on the end of the bed ready to go before I can even find the suitcases. It’s eager and well slept, unlike me who has been waking at 4 am most nights to get a headstart on worrying. I worry that a viral nemesis will claim me–it doesn’t. I worry that my plane will go down–it probably won’t. I worry that my kids will be bored–they probably will. Then I shift into the bigger worries, the ones that stick like burrs in fur and sting with nettle fine hairs–will this be the last time I see my father? How long will it be before I get home next? Can my heart survive the distance that stretches love until it tears? Will my complicated regret about moving away haunt me as I lay dying in some grey and feeble future? I’ve stopped trying to push these thoughts away. There’s no sense trying to reason with them. They just want a cozy place to sleep. They are as devoted as my dog (though far less welcome). They find the soft places below my ribs and dig themselves in. In the middle of the night I let them crawl into bed with me. I look each one in the eye so they know they are seen. Only then will they settle enough to let me sleep. Only then will their grasping hands unclench, softening into a shape of supplication and surrender. 250721 what's it to you? who go blather from