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Stream of consciousness writing on an anxious mood

To be alive at this moment is diluted thickly with confusion. I'm not sure what I'm worried about. Any possible desperate reason I can assign to anything I feel can easily point an accusing finger at another reason, another mistake, another emerging fault. As a result, any words that I may put down to trace it (that's what it feels like right now, as if I'm tracing the shape of the anomalous, outlining a cloud of sensation) wind up standing beside each other in just the same fashion as trees in a forest, with no order but somehow still (at least to me) beautiful in an untouched, organic way. Perhaps that's conceited of me. There I go again, doubting. I feel like I need someone else to mediate between my imagination and my expression. I need someone to hold the bleeding and beating heart tight, squeeze out the blood and make it ink that I can then use to write down the pangs of this life and the random bursts and rushes of hormones. A storyteller. I'm too raw at the moment. My dilemma, though, is I can't tell what is appropriate. I can't find an appropriate space between infant tender and calloused palms. In all honesty I want it to stay, the momentum of inspiration that drags on my heart but stimulates my mind. It makes me feel alive; it gives me purpose to put down words that at least I can understand. Sometimes I need to do this, it helps like aspirin to a headache.
Am I the one who is too aware of myself, or is it becoming normal for us to be this aware? Much of the struggle of living has been appropriated to our exact lifestyles, lifestyles of not comfort but taken-care-of-ness. When getting clean drinking water and finding food is taken care of, when buying a house is just as easy as buying a new outfit, or two, or ten, when maintaining a career can actually be possible through sitting in a chair, when all that is taken for granted is taken for granted, when we forget that everything we think of when we think of our lives is an act put on to make us forget we were animals first, that's when true human nature peeks out of whatever metaphorical uterus fertilized it. Curiosity slipped out from the womb because it was ready to be born, and it was conceived whenever we finally had the time to put down the sticks and stones and look at the Nature of all things that surrounds us and tamper with it. Digression or not aside, what's gonna happen if we keep looking into ourselves? What more will we find? Have we found all that there is, ransacked the human soul to the point of absolute vacancy? Perhaps we have, and an epidemic of unfulfilled hopes followed. In this day and age, though, one can't observe human society as a whole. Everything is too f*****g different, every person is their own color and their own flag, reaching desperately away from the dirt we came from, swatting at the oblivion above in hopes of proving something to the rest of the worms.

If worms are capable of the history we've made so far, I wonder what would happen if we ever took ourselves seriously enough to do more than wiggle back and forth with each other in the same spot.