The Delicate Butterfly

It is odd for me to think of myself as delicate or fragile, a butterfly that so easily can be squashed by a careless foot or hand. Alas, it is lately how I feel. Last week, after months of doing very well, I found myself once again rushing to see the doctor, thinking I was having a heart attack. They again did an EKG and again told me my vital signs were normal and that I am suffering from panic disorder. The only solution they have for something like that of course is pills...the kind that make you feel like you're walking underwater with a skull full of jello. I have been trying to live in the now and not imagine a vast array of tragic future scenarios that send my mind racing in circles and my heart pounding out of my chest. It is not easy for me. I think I need to be reprogrammed, taken into a room where some very congenial lady in a white coat can show me pictures of smiling people and kittens and sunshine and pumpkin patches and infuse my brain with the imagery it needs to relax and just be ok with everything.
Perhaps it's time for me to finally have that lobotamy I've been saving up for. Perhaps they can reach into my head and scoop out the parts that have me on tip toes balancing on pins and needles like a circus animal, gritting my teeth with every breath.
perhaps...