My system still thinks I’m in danger.

That I’m being hunted.

That something urgent is coming.

That something must be done.

Now.

It doesn’t ask if it’s real.

It reacts.

That’s how survival works.

That’s how I was wired.

To stay alive.

I’m not in a survival moment.

I’m in a living one.

The stakes are real.

They’re not lethal.

They feel like it.

My system alarms.

Like a smoke detector wired directly to a toaster.

Every use burns the crumbs I left behind.

Every flicker of heat sets it off.

Making every use a fire.

It’s not broken.

It’s sensitive.

It has to be.

To work.

What I need to do the work

is to pause

to name it.

When I name it,

when I listen before I leap,

the toaster is not on fire.