In adulthood, the weight of failure feels the same,
When you face the boss, your palms begin to sweat,
A critical review, of your achievements in the frame,
Fear grips tight, and regrets become a threat.

Each quarterly report is like a judgment day,
As numbers stare back with a cold, harsh glare,
You hope for praise but brace for dismay,
A sigh escapes while you pretend not to care.

The anxiety builds as deadlines come and go,
A missed target echoes with a hollow sound,
You chase perfection, though the winds might blow,
And face the mirror where your doubts are found.

In meetings, the silence...