Your Majesty, thank you for seeing me on such short notice. I was elated when the town crier came to the village center and proclaimed, “Hear ye! Hear ye! Your Majesty, the King, seeks warriors. Please make haste and apply at the court today.” I rushed to the castle to share my incredible worrier skills with Your Majesty. But when I gazed upon the other job applicants donned in spiky metal armor that barely contained their unnaturally bulging biceps, I quickly realized my mistake. You see, I’m a worrier, not a warrior.

A worrier, not a warrior.

No. Not a warrior but a worrier.

A worrier.

Not a warrior.

“Wooo” not “waaa.” Though I have been known to waaa from time to time.

No, the evil spirits have not gotten my tongue.

Your Majesty, what I’m saying is that I am a worrier—all I do all day long is worry about every little thing that could possibly go wrong. Like currently, I’m worried that your guard will behead me with the giant sword he’s holding to my neck before I finish speaking. That’s an example of an obvious worry. Anyone could do that. My worrier skills go much deeper than that.

I am an expert in all forms of worrying, and I can help Your Majesty win the war you seem to be intent on starting. Some might say being a worrier is even more helpful than being an actual warrior. Of course, I would never say that, as I’d be worried about upsetting the warriors.

Could Your Majesty pause on throwing me into the pit of snakes so I can explain further?

Imagine Your Majesty is meeting with your military commanders to devise the best strategy for the battle. You are all strong leaders with years of experience in bloodshed, but with your undoubtedly deserved confidence, you may be blind to your plan’s shortcomings. No, I did not call your commanders short or blind, please don’t feed me to the lions just yet.

I will review your battle plans and worry about every unforeseen aspect. Like, are you bringing enough soldiers to the battle? Or are you bringing too many? The formula for a successful gathering on the battlefield is to have just the right number of attendees. It shouldn’t feel overcrowded like a stampede, but it also shouldn’t look sparse like you have pink eye and everyone’s trying to avoid you.

I will worry about the RSVPs sent out to the enemy. Did Your Majesty use the right font? Was the language strong enough to enrage them to fight you, but not so strong that they would ambush Your Majesty’s army before the scheduled battle date? It’s a faux pas to arrive at a battle early.

I will worry about what Your Majesty’s soldiers are wearing. Is it enough armor to protect them? But not so much that it weighs them down? Are they showing the right amount of skin? Does Your Majesty’s armor clash with the enemy's armor? Nobody wants to attend a battle with clashing armor. Figuratively speaking, of course. And what if your opponent wears the same armor as Your Majesty’s troops? So awkward.

It’s also important to think about what you are going to say. I will worry a lot about Your Majesty’s opening battle cry, as well as the trash talk during the one-on-one fight interactions. It doesn’t take much for a conversation to come to a screeching halt when you’re meeting your enemy face to face for the first time. I’ll make sure Your Majesty’s army is prepped with some excellent icebreakers, where they can let out their feelings of rage while also getting to know their opponent, which will make the battle more meaningful.

I will, obviously, worry about the right time to leave. Knowing when to exit a battle is an important skill. You don’t want to overstay your welcome, but it’s also rude to “Irish exit” unless fighting the Irish.

And when Your Majesty triumphantly returns from the battle victorious, I still will not rest. I will immediately start worrying about the next battle, as there is no rest for a true worrier.

Your Majesty, thank you for hearing me out. I am ready to serve, I’ve already started worrying.