Impending loss is worse than a quick loss. Impending loss leaves behind the taste of metal. Tangy and dull, both, with an empty coin on the back of your tongue where worry rests and builds a nest and hangs wind chimes by the front door to welcome unexpected visitors. Impending worry loosens the screws at your shoulders and pelvis so that your limbs swing loose and catch the air at odd angles, stumbling over the corners. Worry builds small forts in your brain at night and keeps you awake with the hammering. Worry puts you to bed in a childhood bedroom of gray in the middle of the night when you never could settle. There were no water glasses on the nightstand.
Worry leaves you with no resting place. Nowhere to stop chattering.