Fidget

My feet will not stop moving on the bed,
Nor will my mind stay focused on my work,
But rather, everything that I have read
Is turned to motion in a constant jerk
Of nervous energy, as every word
Becomes a twitch. I cannot help myself.
I noticed that my soul had become stirred,
And therefore took my book down from the shelf,
In the vain hope that it would bring me quiet;
Instead I find it turned into my worry,
As if I made its words part of my diet
And wolfed them down in a confounded hurry
So now they come back up in altered state
Making me bounce and fidget as I wait.