I used to be a hypochondriac,
Terrified of every blemish or spot,
Until horror became insomniac
Episodes wherein mental illness fought
To drown me in its accreting onslaught.
Now you fret the appearance of a mark
On your hand, inconsolably distraught;
Compelled by anxiety to embark,
Downwardly spiralling into deep, dark
Ruminations on if it's cancerous,
Locked in deathful thoughts' inhibitive arc.
The dermatologist will answer this.
When they investigate all will be well,
We'll move on to the next paranoid hell.