I am my own parasite

I don't know what else to do. So I'll write.
I actually spelt that 'right' just now. God I'm good.
What am I feeling. What am I feeling.
My palms and my fingertips are so moist.
I suppose what I am feeling is sheer, overwhelming, white knuckled panic.
Now that it is time to write, my mind is suddenly void of thought.
Or is there just too much thought. I don't know.
I feel immense sadness. Mainly for myself I suppose. But I wish that I had the chance to turn this sorrow into apology.
That's all I want.