Doesn’t register as an addiction, not sweating or shaking. Easy to mistake for a kind of cabin fever- your second wind of the long season, just a couple thousand ants suddenly swarming your blood.

And then the impulse, the bolt through your chest catching its teeth in your spine and you’re so tense under this duress: every muscle flexed against that particular collapse, bowed back to keep from caving. What good has giving in ever gotten when you won’t even look at the demon driving you? Hunting chaos to kill the discomfort of the quiet, you’ve never been better than the appetite just because you’ve denied it.