I used to worry. Sometimes I worried until my personality, my thoughts, my behaviours, were smooth, and all the offending edges had gone the way of windwashed mesas, and other times until my hands were bloody with the effort of the unworryable thought. The clockwork habit, the bedrock personality.
Always rubbing. Picking. Tapping. Turning, looking, inspecting. I worried about worrying.
Eventually I learned what worrying looked like, and learned to stop before the blisters came up on my thumbs.
Some thoughts are disproportionate. They seem to be the unworryable thought, but in reality they’re like candy floss. with a thumb and forefinger you can reduce that impenetrable cloud to a sugar grain. I’ve learned to recognise these, too.