Anxious I am.

Anxious is me.

If I can make it til the end of the day,

Anxious I hope not to be.

Anxiety ridden, this teen hopes not to die.

Literally or figurative.

I just hope to get by.

I hate my life

And picking hope mostly leads to strife.

Strife will always come

No matter if everything turns out fine

Anxiousness is my strife.

I'm like that little dog in that burning room.

I say, "This is fine," but

I'm really sitting in my own head, my own chest of nervousness.

Maybe I shouldn't worry, because can't you see?

This is fine.