Tonight the fear has a body
and it is mine
It sits in the armchair
counting numbers that do not sleep
dates that blink like exit signs
fees that arrive already knowing my name
I believed once that making the work
was the hard part
that if I kept my head down
and my hands honest
the rest would follow like a thank-you note
Now the work is finished
and the fear has receipts
It asks how long belief lasts
when goodwill has no signature
when deadlines do not love you back
when the cost of care is due before the care arrives
I have paid already
in hours
in silence
in learning what should have been offered
freely
by those who knew better
This fear is not drama
it is arithmetic
it is the sound a clock makes
when no one is listening
except the artist who signed everything herself
I am not afraid of failing
I am afraid of being correct too late
of having built something durable
in a world that charges extra for durability
Still
I am here
breathing inside the ledger
holding the work like a live coal
because even now
even frightened
I do not want to drop it