Don't worry. Worry is useless. I worried anyway

For days now, my brain has refused to allow me to finish a thought, constantly interrupting with worries. Even my worries get interrupted--by new worries, or facets of old worries I had not adequately considered. My thoughts are a river overflowing its banks, churning and muddy and ceaseless. I wish I wasn't so scared all the time--scared of the virus, yes, but there is also some deeper fear: the terror of time passing, and me with it.

And yet still I worried. I like being a person. I wanted to keep at it. Worry is yet another side effect of dying.

I felt the worry start to snatch at my breath when I finished talking.

...whatever you're worried about, you're bigger than the worries.