Perfectionism Personified

I am Miracle, and if I was to be terribly arrogant, I would say that I am the Bakery’s own miracle, but this feigned audacity is a mere facet of my personality, of myself, of who I truly am. 
Who am I? 
I am the quiet hums of Berlioz as I make my way to yet another meeting, another interview, another obligation to dress professionally. I am pencil skirts and corporate pants and candy red patent leather pumps. I am the attempt to sound eloquent. Sometimes I am successful. 
Who am I? 
I am the nervous jitters somewhere deep and dark and private, the fear of failure that is heavily drilled into so many, and I am the nervous tic in the first room, in the waiting room. I am the right leg that ceaselessly bounces. I am the nails bitten down to nothing. 
Who am I? 
I am the make-believe clichéd “glue that holds it together”, and I am note pads of indecipherable secretary-style comments, and I am the bullet points of feedback to the instructor. I am corrected spelling and properly placed punctuation. I am both the overflowing schedule and the intense determination to get it done. 
I am perfectionism personified.