The speaker is stuck on one question, "What is wrong with me?", and can't stop turning it over. Every answer they come up with seems plausible, yet none of them settles anything. The poem compares this to a deep well that looks like it holds water. You haul on the rope, hoping to drink, but the bucket keeps coming up full of dirt.
The physical details make the frustration easy to feel: a dry throat, raw hands, all that effort for nothing. The speaker isn't short on explanations. The trouble is that each one is "right" without being helpful, so the real problem may lie in the question itself. Asking what is wrong with you assumes something is broken, and that assumption may be what keeps the search going.
The mood is tired and restless, with a quiet ache of self-doubt. There's no resolution, only the sense of someone wearing themselves out and starting to suspect they're asking the wrong thing.