This is Anxiety

And it wasn't meant to be a poem. I just gave it line breaks so the un-panicked brain could follow it. This really is anxiety.

Things weigh on me. They press and press and press until I'm flat.

 It's anxiety like carving the heart out of a pumpkin and then cutting it a smile.

The room is too big, the walls soar away when I reach for them;
I get dizzy and my hands hum.
Or the room is too small and it can't hold me,
 my pacing, my flapping fingers flicking the nervous off like soapsuds.
My throat clogs up. I want to claw at my chest;
there's a space that hurts and I want to clutch it, a child's hand clapped over a bee sting.
 It's a cannonball, it's I would gnaw away my fingers if I thought it would help,
it's how many blue pills do I have left and I swallow them dry and sit motionless till they work,
because oh god, oh god, if I move I will die.
It's I wish I still smoked because nicotine would save me,
 it's I'll down the whiskey and the wine and the one bottle of beer in the crisper -- why is it in the crisper; for god's sake it isn't lettuce-- all at once just to blunt the edge of this hell;
 help me, someone help me, I think I'm drowning on dry land.