Your anchors are:
What do these people want from me?
The answer is clear. They want what they were promised. They were promised a wedding toast, or a presentation, or a retirement speech. Whatever form it takes, these people were promised something that means something to them. To break your promise is such a bad thing, that we would rather freeze immobile, urinate in our pants, drip buckets of ice cold flop sweat than risk such an outcome. It is the very worst thing to make a promise and then publicly break it. In our lists of terrors, this fear takes top honours, and it is rooted in a promise-breaking-phobia that is no more reasonable than one of spiders, lightening or going outside.
So I ask you now, is breaking a promise really such a huge deal? Especially when such promises and much bigger ones are made and broken every second of every day of our lives. Snap your fingers right now. Go on, who cares?
Snap your fingers.
In that time it took to make that sound, a solemn vow to a wife, son, brother or electorate is broken, not just once, but many hundreds of times.
You have made other promises. Have you not? You have made promises to be a husband, a father, a sister, and a friend. Many of these you have managed to keep, but some, less so. We all exist in a matrix of promises, and not all of them are kept. This is disappointing, but a part of life. Sooner or later, we fail.
Think of a time when you have failed. Consider it deeply. Really think of it. Imagine a piece of paper, and the story of that failure is written upon it. See the words, see them on the paper, the names, what happened. Close your eyes right now and think of that.
When you open your eyes, imagine that you have that piece of paper in your hands. Feel its edges. See the ink drying into the paper. The story is stored there, outside of yourself.
Now crumple it! Crumple that piece of paper and throw it into the furnace of forgiveness. For that is where it goes!
Now repeat the process.