The speaker is looking at the daily newspapers and sees something faintly absurd. Papers trade in "discontent," swapping one kind of grumbling for a huge pile of gossip and "God knows what." The poem calls the result "a mad theater," as if the news were a stage show where everyone performs and no one quite knows the plot.
The last three lines turn from the papers to us. "Think of the trouble we go through / to see what will remain / of all our expectations." Judging by the title, the speaker counts themselves among the addicts. We keep reading, keep checking, and what we mostly find out is how our hopes have fared, or how little of them is left.
The mood is dry, wry, and a little tired. The speaker isn't angry; there's more of a shrug, mixed with gentle self-mockery. The tone suggests that the habit of following the news is both ridiculous and oddly touching.