I find that when I fret or stew or grouse,
My attic’s infiltrated with a mouse—
That is, my brain feels gnawed upon and frayed,
My thoughts are littered, and my nerves are flayed.
I’ve learned it’s self-indulgent and a waste
Of vital power, leaving my soul disgraced,
If I obsess when I might better act
By mustering up the courage that I lacked.
When heart takes residence where fear once dwelled,
The rodent in my attic is expelled.