To check my head in your pane

How can misery be measured? How can weariness? Despair? When will they invent a cerebral sonar to assess the extent of these depths to which I have sunk? Where is the Richter reading to depict how violently I quake in fear of failure? Why is there no Saffir-Simpson scale capable of rating the threat-level represented by this whirlwind of worry billowing around my brain at all times? Who could find a way to chart my moods on a Volcanic Explosivity Index and detect the proximity of my next emotional outburst? Which flow reader exists that can track the torrent of tears, and which pressure gauge can display my utter deflation? If I want to determine precisely how heavy my heart is, should I just rip it out and throw it on a postage scale? Yes, OCD creature that I am, I need these things standardized, quantized, pitch-corrected, and overly inspected. "Danger, Will Robinson!" cries out that embattled endurance within me. After thirty years, I may be young enough not to care, but old enough to know better than to completely give into my bleakest thoughts, for they very well could become my last thoughts.