Pushing down on me, pressing down on you.

I’m a perennial worrier, and I often slip into anxiety. I know worrying doesn’t achieve anything, but telling myself to stop is like telling an arachnophobe to just stop being afraid of spiders.

The house we’re renting is being put on the market for sale, which will mean a lot of phone calls and people traipsing through our house. And keeping the house presentable. And it makes me feel strangely… small? Because we’re just the people living in the house that someone else is selling. When agents say jump, tenants have to jump.

We’re also halfway through spring and have yet to see much of any appropriate spring weather. It’s been wet, cloudy and cold for about three weeks straight, and it’s affecting my mood and nerves. Winter is just dragging on and on and on.

And other things. I’m very tense, which means I’m mostly inclined to write whiny, ranty things, which means no writing for me for now. After this.