The speaker is asking herself a difficult question: if she keeps her days strictly ordered, predictable, and clean, will she still have space for love? She already suspects the answer might be no, because she imagines Love as something born in storm and living in strife. In other words, real love, as she sees it, is not tidy. It is intense, disruptive, and demanding.
The feeling underneath is quiet anxiety. She values routine and control, yet she fears those very habits could shut out passion. The mood is reflective and a little melancholy—not angry or dramatic, but like someone lying awake at night, wondering what she might have to give up in order to feel safe. The poem leaves the reader with an open, uneasy question rather than a resolution.