Disconnected

This feeling, of being trapped inside one's own head, is disturbing on a whole new level.

I know what I need to do, I know what I want to do, but there is something in my head that just isn't connecting with what it needs to in my body. (That's about the best, least verbose way I can explain it.)

I need to finish what I've started doing in my room; I don't like having these piles of life detritus all over the place.
I need to reorganize my bookcase, sort through my clothes, go through the stuff in the hall, pack stuff up, pull (or whack) some weeds, rake, pile yard stuff up, and then get over to the craft house and start making stuff again.
...but I just can't.

All I want to do is sleep. Walking Bailey is physically exhausting anymore, and I sweat way more than that activity should be responsible for. (You'd think I'd been outside in the heat for thirty minutes instead of three, or that I'd just ran two miles.)
I think that my dismetabolic syndrome and my hypothyroidism has finally caught up with me. Also, I think that I have prediabetes (praying it doesn't make the switch to full-fledged diabetes).
There may or may not be something else going on in my muscles, too, as those three aforementioned things can affect musculature (and other things) and I don't want to say that what I feel happening in my muscles isn't because of the combination of those three things.

I won't know anything until my medical card gets renewed on August 1 and I can make an appointment then to see a doctor. (But then it will be a physical and tests and lab work and blood work and then, possibly then, a treatment plan can be established and started.) Oh joy.