31/365, 12/30 Killing Butterflies

They say this feeling is normal
when it is anything but.
Crippling jitters,
the inability to stand still without shaking,
without locking the knees,
the inappropriate sweating,
the loss of smooth speech:
these are the signs of stroke,
of fatigue,
of organ failure.
These are normal only in the sense
that they tend to happen,
that they follow the laws of biology and physics.
They are irrational responses
to the perception that this moment
is unlike other moments,
that there is a particular danger
inherent in this particular failure.
I stand in front of an audience every day.
What I say in my classroom could come back to haunt me,
if I choose my words poorly,
if their test scores come out low.
It could impact my livelihood,
end my career.
Yet I am worried about a poem
presenting it flawlessly for a crowd
I know will applaud for me
whether I do my best work
or forget the words.
Performance anxiety is a mind game
for which no preparation can compare,
over which I turn intestines to bowties and slipknots.
I tell myself it will be fine.
It will not be fine.
Everyone tells me it will be fine.
They're only saying that.
Will I hear the applause
over my own critique?
They will applaud the effort, regardless.
Will I believe what I hear?
It will be fine.
It will be just fine.