All-Or-Nothing Thinking

For what reason this all-or-nothing thinking? Too hot, too cold,—but never in the middle I live, a victim of this ruthless riddle that contradicts reply (and has me sinking!?). This anarchy of mind that's got me drinking is never gray, but too much or too little like a deranged, mad instrument, a fiddle, that counterpoints a melody without blinking. Unlike my thinking, life's not black or white but somewhere in the middle, where insane poor souls escape manic, psychotic thoughts like refugees from their depressive plight, a Scylla and Charybdis that won't drain the swirling stream of mania's onslaughts.