Rationality has left the building

I may, in passing, have mentioned that I'm finding this building work lark a bit stressful.

It's also possible that I am prone, every now and then, to a soupcon of anxiety.

It should, probably, come as no surprise that the stresses of getting the building work done is proving rather anxiety-inducing.

There have been a few incidents that are not world-shattering, and in the bigger picture, well, they're not really in the "bigger" picture, because they're small. But they've been vexing, and frustrating, and have caused me to become somewhat agitated. There've been a few occasions when the diligent, all-weather builders have either misunderstood, misinterpreted, or re-interpreted my designs/sketches, and I've come home from work to find an unexpected surprise has been constructed. I don't like surprises of that sort. Twice I've insisted they change what they've built. The third time I've shrugged off as not worth fighting over. The fourth time (today) caused me to launch a major broadside, that was perhaps a trifle intemperate. The word "ranty" was used by BigBear, in a very gentle and loving way. He's been remarkably tolerant of my irrationality.

There's also been The Question Of The Doors. There's not really much point going into it, but the brief version is that a failure in communications means the massive bifold doors that I asked for are not as massive as I had asked for. I wouldn't even really mind this, if something like this had happened:

Builder: Those doors you wanted?
PhysicsBear: Yes?
Builder: If you have that cupboard you mentioned in passing, there's no room for that size door. Do you want a smaller cupboard or smaller doors?
PhysicsBear: Good question, let me have a think.

Instead, what happened was this:

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And then I measured where the doors are going, found it was smaller than I was expecting, and asked why. I asked why seven times by email, over the course of a week and a half before getting an answer. And then the answer was, "it's your own fault for wanting a cupboard."

The finished room will be lovely. The not-quite-so-massive doors are still going to be massive, and still be lovely. The slightly-surprising constructions will only ever be surprising to me, and though surprising, they are beautifully built. I cannot fault the workmanship of the diligent, all-weather builders.

But...

I feel sick with anxiety. I am afraid that my intemperate ranting will mean the builders will refuse to finish the job. My hands shake as I drive home from work, as I hope that I won't have to speak to them in person. I wonder what terrible things the builders are saying about me to their friends. Some of my friends are their friends. It's not that big a village. How many people that I know now think I'm rude and angry? How many people that I don't know now think I'm rude and angry? Will I move from being "the weird woman who cries outside school" through "crazy cape-wearing lady" and straight into "psycho customer that nobody wants to deal with"?

I am tired of being tired. Tired of lying awake at night having arguments in my head. Tired of thinking and over-thinking every decision and conversation. I want my sleep back, my peace-of-mind back and most of all my home back.

I want to cry.

I want to hide.

I want it all to just go away.

I want it to be over.