anger and the Other

Anger can be one of those things that makes for good writing. Many blogs have made good use of it - irritation feeds passion, brings intensity, and a certain energy to the process of writing. We imagine the author inflamed, typing at speed, or knocking off the letter (irritated of Tunbridge Wells) with a certain gestural flourish befitting the depths of disquiet that brought the poor creature here in the first place.
Today it is I who is irritated. Indeed I would go so far as to say that I am furious. Incandescent, even (I imagine myself glowing like a sore finger).  It is one of those furies that starts in the pit of the stomach and rides upwards like a stampede of wolves howling at the moon in chase of something small, obscure and cute, but already lost, already mauled by what the Spanish would call the vicio of the hunt. There will never be enough to satiate the pack that rides like this; it is what it is because it lives only in that vicious chase for the furry cause of its desire.
This is the insight I have, today, I think - that anger, irritation and its various near cousins, are more often than not causally diffuse. They inevitably emerge with what popular psychology has come to term a trigger. But the trigger is a false friend - it leads one to think that it is precisely that which is cause. And yet it is only symptom, mere cipher of a state that is already here and rapidly passing, flux, flow, Strom; it is neither herald nor agent, but mirage of both, the trace of a process that is already at an end, gone, passed and the anger that follows is just the afterglow, the heat that is expelled as by-product of a chemical reaction that brews elsewhere and elsewhen.
I wonder how anger and cause really do relate, then. As I write, my anger, the end of the process hat I cannot grasp, is already dissipated. I don't know why I was angry, or at what, but that feeling, so intense and all-consuming, is nothing like anxiety, except, perhaps, only structurally similar. Anxiety can debilitate in ways that are unbearable - gut-wrenching, stomach-churning anxiety stops you in your tracks; anger can do this too, but it can also fire up, bring movement, transference, a traversing of that which lies at the heart of the fantasy that feeds it: I am NOT what you say, I am THIS (and the evidence refuses to play along); why don't you give me an ANSWER (and authority hides itself and never speaks); why can’t you see what I see (and the world hides from others the insights you bitterly wish to share); why am I so ridiculous (and the faint trace of a smirk on the Face of the other haunts and taunts and mocks)?
Questions, so many questions and yet no answers. In this instance, at least, anger accompanies a sudden glimpse of the blindspot that cannot be named and is nowhere to be spoken except in this: my anger is the place at which you hide yourself from me.