Mine is not a lava lamp panic.
It doesn’t merely grumble and agitate and occasionally bloop out a ball of molten yuck.
Mine angrily churns, roaring in anger, spitting out white-hot bullets of insanity and terror. It sets the world on fire, maliciously devouring every speck of calm in my entire world.
And I skate above the cauldron of panic on a tissue-thin plate of ice borne only of medication.
It’s scary how close I am to burning.
Some mornings (like today) I can almost smell my shadow burning.