He covered his face with his hands, tears draining from his eyes. He couldn't hold it together anymore. The more he looked at her the more he started to freak out. Those inner shakes started to move outside. "I can't do anything!" he whirled around, pacing himself in circles, wringing his hands into his hair. I can't draw, I can't write, I can't even look at a block of clay without it laughing at him. He was frantic.
"If I can't create then I'm no longer an artist. If I can't be an artist I can't show the world beauty. If I can't make beauty then I've failed to exist. You've failed to exist...you have no reason to..." to love him. He was wringing his hassle over and over circling by the door. He was choking up the more he rambled on.
The maids eyed Galatea confused asking if they should put on some herbal tea. It might make the strange little man calm down.