I think too much. Whenever a feeling strikes me, I cannot but hold it... my childish hands dissect it like the not-so-nice boys in your class used to dissect flies and insects. I see every little thing this feeling is made up of and name it... I throw myself into analyzing and baptizing with the indulgence of a 21th century Diderot/Linneaus-wannabe... But whatever I call them, feelings are just feelings.
No name I make up could ever make the feelings stay or go. The feelings don't listen to my home made Harry Potter spells but lingerson... We all know it: the only answer to feelings, especially those of insecurity, is human company. The warmth of another body, and the scent of another another human being breathing next to you. A hand through your hair, or a cup of hot chocolate prepared by these same very hands.
Nothing else will ever help, but I keep on giving names and labelling what I see. It's an act of control of course... and not very buddhist at all. And when I long too much for that hand in my hair I show the world all these names I've made up. If they don't understand... who am I to blame them?