Chronic anxiety is an open wound.
Yep, a big, old, seeping gash of infected goo you do everything to hide from the world. (Unless of course you’re me, who flashes her septic soul daily.)
Anyhow, my ick is particularly icky this morning and is best not disturbed. (Yes, even I get squeamish at the sight of it some days.)
So, we’ll wait to poke at it again until tomorrow when the festering isn’t quite so putrid.