A Poem and A Question

I wrote this poem. I have no illusions that it's actually good, but the sentiments that poured out surprised me a little.

I folded socks today.

And as I did the dishes,

I remembered when I wrote verses

All about desire and the supernova of my feelings.

My insides haven’t changed, and as I did the dishes,

My belly churned with violence.

My skin prickled Bacchic all over,

While my hands folded socks.

Think this signals a midlife crisis?