panic over nothing

I hate to panic over nothing. 
That's a lie. Honest review 
of my emotions in the moment
suggests I love it. What I hate
is finding out
it was over nothing.

You see: in panic,
Instinct and intuition 
are firing all cylinders 
at solutions to the same
usual question in the ol' 
"What do I DO?" routine. 

Full of sound and fury relatively
empty of sense, reason and judgment, 
signifying potentially everything 
at stake, anything can happen 

if you only panic right - on 
a canny instinct intuition binge!
We got this, haven't we?

Feels like! 

It's exhilarating, with a sense 
of dread and doom and rising 
to meet it: pluck and what-the-fuck,
I got this. EAT A DICK, PANIC! 

So in the moment, I'm kind of 
vested in the idea that my panic 
is about something. Worthy panic. 
Worth the rear to rampant, canny
defiance and bristling tactical arrays
rotating into and out of position 
all over the place, dithering.
Disarrays, really, but intent. Intense.   

If it's all over nothing, what a fool! 
Paging mister melodrama, crooning
that old #1 hit of his, "What Do I Do
(PANIC)?" weaving and panicking,
panicking and at the same time, weaving
- working furiously at that warping, 
wefting, shuttling loom of his, weaving
tapestry of response in brilliant hues
and fine detail, responsive to the vast dark 
shapes looming more suddenly 
than was polite. 

Panicking into error, perchance.
One knows it! In the moment, one
knows one might be! What daring
gall and nerve we have, we who
panic. All over nothing, though?

What a post-panic letdown. Where's
the triumph we risked so assiduously, 
dared so boldly for over nothing? 

One wants one's panic to be right.