Unmoving

And now I sit, unmoving.
The epicentre of my own downward spiral.
Unwilling, unchanging; staring desolate into the void.
Bored into unproductivity.
Feelings of loathing arise.
The great pleasure of completion fades.
It would be the bane of myself to even lift a finger.
Not a morcle of work was completed.
Only wallowing in the anxiety; the fear of rejection upon the reaction of those in support of me.
How disappointed they would be.
Their faces I could clearly envision; so distraught.
At my lack of motivation.
Of care for the outcome; as there was none.