Not if but when

Nervously, he made his approach.  Step followed slow, wavering step, as if crossing a narrow bridge without sides.  His chest tightened and his hands curled as he drew ever closer.  His breathing became shallow and his vision narrowed to a point right ahead. He seemed to float, as if carried, over the last remaining reason to go back and so, he sat down at his table by the window, to write again.