Are you okay but the question comes at you 
 from a distance,
 time-lagged
 down a tunnel in a language you remember you used to know.
  
 It takes a long time, 
 even longer to respond.
 It’s hard to form words
 when you can’t work your muscles
 and you’re concentrating on breathing
 and your head is trying to explode from
 the juxtaposing contradictions of 
 too fast and too slow.
  
 Not really but it’s too hard to explain
 what I’m like on the inside when I’m 
 overwhelmed by even the outside.
  
 The world is too much: 
 too big and too open,
 too loud and too bright,
 too small and too dark and too oppressive
 and the people bury me with their presence;
 the input is overwhelming.
 I feel them everywhere.
  
 I want them all gone.
 I need them as an anchor.
 It’s a conundrum.
  
 Deep breaths and feel my feet.
 Feel my kidneys.
 Try and focus the whirling and spinning eyes.
 Fight the nausea.
 Don’t run.
 I’m still here, somewhere, 
 lost but totally visible.
  
 No one notices the inside screaming,
 the slow deep breaths,
 the rising storm
 but they see me raise my hands and stagger,
 step back in retreat
 from absolutely nothing
 as I shatter inside into a million pieces.
  
 I appreciate the concern but I can’t talk to you right now.
 I’m busy.
 Busy pulling myself back into some semblance of cohesion;
 looking for myself in the dust and debris
 wondering where I go
 when I’m not here anymore.