Can This Poem Bring Me Back To Life?

My tea is too hot and my stomach rumbles. Today is not my day.
I should find comfort in the grey skies outside, but instead it makes me anxious.
After all, all bad things happen under the cloak of darkness.
And I wonder if when I type this, the blood will return back to my fingers,
Creation back to my brain,
And comfort back to my uneasy soul?
But then, no writer ever writes well with an easy soul.
It is our darkness and unease that stir us at midnight
And whisper to us to move,
To stir from bed,
To move to the pen and paper or glow of a screen in a dark room shut down for the night,
And to share our unease with the universe,
To bring it out of our minds,
And down our arms,
And out our fingertips,
And to give it voice,
And to give us a moment's peace,
Before darkness falls again,
And whispers our ritual rise.