A Loud

Ambient chaos exits me as noise;
I whistle like a teakettle on high.
I wonder often if the sound annoys
My colleagues, or the people passing by
And when I do, I also wonder why:
Why is it that my nerves are guitar strings,
Why I tap toes against my desk, or sigh,
Or creak my chair in rhythm as it swings.
Am I so tense that I cannot express
The fact of my existence silently?
Must every single little source of stress
Exhale itself so volubly from me?
Or would I cease to be, or just be less,
If I did not confirm it audibly?