The bad nerves start somewhere in my belly,
spreading and sliming out across limbs
with a nauseous grip down to the bone.
There ain’t nothing to be nervous about.
That’s one of my many failed mantras.
 I used to try –
“What’s the worst that could happen?”
But my own answers to a lighthearted question
scared the ever lovin’ shit out of me.
There ain’t nothing to be nervous about.
But it’s in my throat now, tight and wet,
barely contained by deep breaths.
The bad nerves, strangling my sense of reason.