Sonnet to Not a Bee

I'd liken myself to the worker bee
Since stilling my hands feels like blasphemy
But what are the devil's playthings to do
When one glance askance steals my wings from me?
When worry about what others may know
Puts thoughts in my head that then start to grow:
What little harmless embarrassing tell
Have I inadvertently put on show?
Should people buzz? Does excitement offend?
What love should I discard to make amends?
To know one is strange without knowing more
Is killer of craft, a maker of ends.
Since worry has taken purpose from me
I stand here, nothing like a worker bee.