O taraxic life

Ahhh life is complex, as is my stomach, tightly knot in anxiety. I am between two habits - the comfy summer habit soon to be as gone as summer evenings, and the new, back to uni habit, which means people: to be surrounded w people, to live among people, and hopefully to try and be one. Of course i'm calling it a habit; but it'll only be a habit once i've started. But amongst the ideal entities of this world, a habit is laid out for me. And it's my ignorance of how it will turn out to be that causes my anxiety, or at least one half thereof. The other is altogether more intractable, dealing with a family member in a similarly shaped bind. To bear one's own anxieties is tolerable; to be aware of another's is not so easy.
In Beckett's book on Proust he relates Marcel's habit-woe as he struggles to acclimatize himself to a new room. He is away from home; everything is unfamiliar; he sees the world thru different, undeadened by habit eyes. And what is the world he sees? Suffering; unconceptualized life, actually seeing things is to suffer ( he owes plenty to Schopenhauer does Beckett here; and he mocked this book is later life, but he did call his trilogy "godawful" or something like that, so he may not be the best self-critic.). Or at least so say Proust, Beckett and me. It is of course highly concievable that we're each of us judging life from neurotical dispositions (from body parts? My stomach is the centre of my reactions to the world, Beckett had a dodgy ticker, what about Proust?). Or again, perhaps it's an aspergian thing ( Unstoppable brilliance, a book by michael Fitzgerald( i think, can't be arsed checking) conjectures that old SB was an aspie). Don't know abour Proust tho.
Because the vast majority of peeps, I imagine, don't undergo such torments when changing, such wrenching anxiety.
Meeeeehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.