Yourself
Some days, it was like McCoy could feel the 429 lives he held in his hands.
For some people, such a sensation might give them a rush. The power-hungry and controlling often reveled in lording such responsibility over others. In short, they didn't treat such a position responsibly. Others, the good ones, took it seriously, and gravely did their best to serve their colleagues and comrades diligently and professionally.
But sometimes it felt impossible.
Sometimes his mistakes would keep him up at night. How he had disappointed Jim. How he had inadvertently blinded Spock. How he missed the signs of an autoimmune disorder in Ensign Latoya before it could be reversed. How he forgot to log a dosage on a patient's chart once and the nurse after him almost administered a second dose too early because of it.
And, since he was a grown-ass man who had seen a thing or two in his career, he knew most of these mistakes were human errors that would happen once in a while. He always strove to do better next time. He always tried to correct them, if they were correctable. Such was a part of life.
But the mistakes fed another, louder voice in his head. It spoke up every time he made a new one, every time he messed up, or any time he let someone down. Anxiety whispered in his ears. You're a terrible doctor, who does something like that? How are you going to make it up to them? You think groveling would be enough? What are you going to do the next surgery? Could you even walk in the room?
They're all counting on you; you can't afford to slip up. 429 lives and it's your head. There's so many UNKNOWNS out here, you can't even begin to prepare for it all. So many things you don't understand, so many ways all these people can die while you just stand by saying 'I don't know what to do.' You don't know how to help them. You wind up making things worse by trying. You really are a prancing shaman waving his beads and rattles in the face of this cruel universe and its infinite variables.
What about next time? What about next time? What are you going to do? What even CAN you do?
McCoy swallowed thickly. "I can try my best," he whispered to the dark room.
He rolled over, the whispers still jockeying for attention but getting pushed to the background as he found a little strength with which to forgive himself.