I spend exactly 48 minutes every morning in a silver crossover SUV, transitioning between two distinct physiological states. My neighbors in the cul-de-sac see me loading a thermos and assume a certain level of domestic stability. They see the khakis and the boots. They don't see the literal recalibration of my vocal cords as I hit the highway. My natural resting volume is low—decibel levels that would be classified as "subdued" or "passive" in a clinical setting. But by the time I pull into the gravel lot, I have to initiate a complete override of my primary personality traits. The crew is sixteen men. If I speak at my baseline, the sound is physically swallowed by the diesel engines and the sheer lack of deference from the laborers. I have analyzed the data: when I am concise and quiet, the error rate in the foundation pours increases by 12%. When I am loud—when I utilize percussive, high-volume directives and mimic the aggressive postural displays of the senior site leads—compliance reaches 98%. I call it "tactical agitation." I have to be the loudest thing on the site. I HAVE to scream until my throat feels like it’s been scraped with a file just so the foreman from the electrical sub-contractor doesn't overlook my presence in the trailer. Today I had to dress down a guy twenty years older than me because he bypassed a safety protocol. I watched myself do it. It was like observing a different species through a glass partition. I felt the adrenaline—a sharp, chemical spike in the amygdala—but no actual heat behind it. I yelled "GET THE HELL OFF THE LADDER AND LOOK AT ME WHEN I'M TALKING," and my voice sounded like a stranger’s. Deep, raspy, performative. He looked intimidated. He should have been. But inside, I was just cataloging the physical exhaustion of sustaining that level of hostility for nine hours. It's a calculated friction. Now it’s 2:14 AM and I’m sitting in my kitchen in the dark. The silence in the suburbs is absolute, and it feels... pathological. I keep trying to find the point where the "me" from the 48-minute commute ends and the "me" at the site begins. There is no clear demarcation. I’ve noticed a persistent tremor in my hands lately, which I suspect is a symptom of chronic sympathetic nervous system activation. I can’t tell if I’m becoming the person who yells, or if the person who prefers silence is simply being phased out by a more efficient model. My husband thinks I’m just "tired from the project," which is a gross oversimplification of the structural shift happening in my brain. I looked in the mirror before bed and didn't recognize the tension in my jaw. It’s like a permanent muscular set. I keep searching for the right term for this. Dissociation? Role-strain? I don't know how to turn the volume back down.