The poem begins already in the middle of an outburst. "I want to throw my keyboard, / Why am I even typing": there is no scene-setting, and the question has no question mark, as if the speaker is too wound up to finish punctuating it. The opening gives us a violent urge and also hints that the poem is being typed as we read it. That is an inference from the keyboard and the present tense, but the rest of the text supports it. We seem to be reading the panic as it happens, not a calm memory of it. The threat is oddly aimed, too. The speaker wants to smash the very tool that lets the feelings out.
The body takes over from there, and the imagery is more mechanical than natural. "Streams flow from my eyes" is the only flowing, watery picture. After it come verbs that belong to machines: the heart "pumps," the speaker "can't steady my race," the "pulse" needs stopping. "Stutters, tha-thump" does the most work. The sound word imitates a heartbeat, and "stutters" makes the line itself falter. The keyboard and the heart end up as parallel objects, both things the speaker wants to throw down or switch off.
The rhyme behaves much like the speaker's breathing. It appears in patches (typing/griping, eyes/cries, free/me), and "pumps/thump" is a near-rhyme that sounds like a slip. In the middle of the poem, where the speaker describes uneven breaths and a racing heart, the lines stop chiming altogether. Rhyme returns only at the very end, with "feeling" and "healing." Whether or not this was deliberate, the effect is that order disappears when panic peaks and comes back as it eases. The rough edges, like the comma after "keyboard" and the spelling "breathes," add to the sense of a draft written too fast to polish.
The only moment the poem looks outward is the turn to "you." "I need you here, / You said you'd be free. / But you've gone to sleep." The listener is never identified, and the poem doesn't need that. What matters is the gap between a promise and an empty room. The complaint is also quiet. The speaker doesn't accuse but says, in the poem's longest and most sprawling line, "You can't see what this anxiety is doing to me." There is a bitter pun available here. A sleeping person literally can't see, and anxiety is the kind of suffering that is invisible even to someone awake.
The peak comes with "Stop. Stop. STOP." The word never changes, but the typography does: full stops give way to capitals, and the volume rises on the page. The next lines are the most extreme in the poem. The speaker wants to "stop my pulse" and says "my heart needs to stop." Read in context, this is hyperbole, the language of a body in alarm. The next line clarifies what is actually wanted: "I need to quit feeling." The heart is the organ doing the feeling and the one thing that can't be argued with, so it gets the blame. What the speaker is after is relief from sensation, the alarm switched off.
The poem's key words shift as it goes. It opens with "want," the language of impulse: I want to throw, I want to slam. After that comes "need," repeated like a drumbeat: "I need you here," "I need to stop my pulse," "I need to quit feeling," and finally "I need to start healing." Wanting turns into needing, and the poem moves from lashing out to asking for help. The last couplet is plain, almost flat, and that is its strength. "This anxiety's too much" names the problem without decoration. Notice, though, that the poem ends on "need," not "will." Healing is a direction, not something already achieved, and the poem is honest enough not to pretend otherwise.
That honesty is what makes the poem worth reading. It doesn't explain anxiety from a safe distance or tidy it into a lesson. It records the experience while it is happening: the temper, the loneliness, the body running ahead of the mind, and then a small, steadying turn toward recovery. Nothing is known here about the poet, Vegim, beyond the words on the page, but the text gives enough. Readers who have ever lain awake with a pounding heart, wishing someone were awake to hear it, will recognise every line.