I don’t expect the anxiety to go away

    but I want the anxiety to know

its place in the scheme of things

    of which I seem to consist.

I want the anxiety to be

    not an attention-getter or star

but faceless, like a butler bring trays,

    whose old hand has turned down my bed,

who knows when to take his leave,

    the one I could even come to pity,

this trembling retainer I keep on,

    as my father before me,

out of some long-standing

    loyalty to the anxiety family,

whose fortunes have been bound up

    with ours for so long.