Professional worrier...

The baby is now six months old and it’s time I started thinking about returning to some manner of paid work. I saw this advert and thought I might apply:

Positions Vacant
Northern Irish family seeks professional worrier, must be certified (generalised anxiety disorder diagnosis preferred), to perform weekly worrying duties re: possibilities of dissident terror attacks, economic meltdowns, random shootings at supermarkets, cyber attacks, various health scares. English-speaker, references required. Live-in only, need worrying assistance 24/7. Excellent pay and benefits.

So I put pen to paper and posted off this reply:

I am a professional worrier.
I started my career early; at around the age of five-years-old, while on a bus trip to Kinegoe Bay in Donegal. I felt the first explosion of worry erupt then as we teetered along a bumpy cliff top road on a school bus that had seen better days. I looked out that window to the waves crashing below and I worried. I worried that the bus driver (who, if I remember correctly, had only one fully functioning eye) would send us over to a watery demise.
From that day forward I worried on a part-time basis. I worried about earwigs, school, about boys, about if I was smart enough, tall enough, good looking enough, funny enough. I worried so much that when life was going good and I didn’t have anything to worry about I would worry about the ravaging effects the chemicals released by not worrying would have on my mind.
I quite frequently worried sheep just by looking worriedly in their direction.
I took my worrying to whole other level eight years ago when I started off on the path to motherhood. As soon as that little blue line appeared I worried over what I ate, how many hours I worked, how worry can affect unborn babies.
When the boy was born I worried about how much he ate, how many hours he slept and if me worrying would somehow transfer over to him in some kind of worry-vibe mother-son transition.
In the passing years I have diversified somewhat, worrying at great length and depth about subsequent children and also heading off in different paths of worry.
I worried so much about the oldest boy heading into hospital this week for a minor procedure on his teeth that I came out in a worry rash. Quite the achievement I think you’ll agree.
I also told the hospital staff that if they didn’t take great care of my precious firstborn son I would have them all sacked, run out of town with pitchforks and their names blackened in the world of modern medicine. And I vowed, between maniacal sobs, to step out in front of a train, or leap from a tall building, if that was the sacrifice required, to prove to surgical staff the depth of my love for this boy and how so very precious he was in my world. Then I worried for the entire stay at the hospital that they would have me committed. So, you see, I am capable of diversifying to neurotic and even psychotic behaviour.
In my current position I perform weekly worrying duties such as possibilities of asthma attacks, terror attacks, anthrax mail packages, further dislocations in economy resulting from catastrophic loss of life and/or office space, sars, bird flu, flesh-eating bugs, swine flu and MRSA.
In my spare time I worry about my finances, my kid’s futures and if our neighbours will keep burying their deceased family pets in the garden that my kitchen window looks out onto.

I’ve had no reply as yet.
I’m worried.