Squeamish in skin

Consistently doubtful of reason.
If life real is not knowing and doing anyway,
Why is there such unease.
Accepting existing at all seems stupid,
Without reason, accepting reality makes me squeamish.
Like I'm disgusted by myself.
And accepting reality, for it's simple merry-go-round... squeamish at the choice I make.
It is simple confidence that makes everyone else fine, how are they so fine in their skin?
So happy with their definition of themselves...