the constant

I'm an anxious person anyway. I mean, in normal times, or non-covid-19 times anyway.
Add in good ol' corn teen, dire predictions, federal chaos, mixed messaging and a soupcon of conservative tomfoolery and--yep, the anxiety-meter is off the charts.
I don't mean that every day is an exercise in hiding in a darkened closet.
It's the uncertainty. The constant undercurrent of wondering.
--How's the world doing?
--Are things better? Worse? How would we know?
--Am I failing at working from home? Should I be writing more? Reading more? Sewing more masks? Taking more down time?
*
I walked by QFC yesterday and a man was outside shouting at the clerk working the entrance, regulating ins and outs, clad in mask and gloves. Dude, really. Now? No.
*
We don't know where we are on the continuum of this (and do we ever, I wonder).
But this feels more tentative to me. I think because so much of the activities that keep me not-anxious are off the table or severely constricted. Exercising outside. Weekend visits to my cabin. Gallivanting around town with friends. The loudest of live shows.
And I'm not whining. Just--working on turning my attention within. What -can- I do?
Besides worry, anyway.
*
Sunday I went for a long and early walk. I laid on the couch and caught up on Insecure.  I researched and signed up for a local CSA and even got an early delivery today of beautiful purple radishes, broccolini, and some young garlic. (Fresh veg for the win, plus it means fewer trips to the grocery store.)
Yesterday I did yoga. I spent some socially distant time with family members. I saw a hummingbird and chatted with some friends.
Today, the anxiety is back so I just sat with it. I know it's not going anywhere soon. I know it's not rational and that fighting it will only make me more tired. So I accept it and feel crappy and then not so crappy and the day can continue.