Hyper-precarious

How dear you are, my love, your feelings,
or what I perceive that they would be,
seem to send my better judgment reeling,
as their weight, I, misguided, take on me.

I look at all your goodness and your worth,
and reprove myself for my capacity,
to anticipate reactions that come forth.
I wax defensive; it can't all be me.

My love, I wish that I could be objective,
and never mountains from molehills erect.
Hypersensitivity, its mark effective,
puts fear into the real and the direct.

How good, if healing brought an inner peace,
That what we hear, not taken personally,
would enrich mutual rapport, reactions cease,
build understanding between you and me.