I never know if what I do is right,
Although sometimes I doubt it. If I think
Too hard about it, sometime near midnight,
I know it's unproductive, but I'll sink
Into a mild fugue of self-debate
Discussing endlessly if what I've done
Is what I should have. As I sit and wait
To end the inquiry I have begun,
Attempting to outlast all my self-doubt,
Another part of me recursively
Wonders if I should try to root out
The over-self-reflective part of me,
And so around we go. It never ceases
Until my worries tear my mind to pieces.
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