[He scoffs-]

I'll tell you what was going on.

[-and finally sits up straight, the intensity of his gaze nearly boring a hole into the opposite wall.]

I was winning.

[He drags a hand through his hair, trying not to think about how sore he is or how it still hurts to even move, focusing instead on an explanation, such as it is.]

I had a couple of successes all in a row and I got cocky. I thought I could add another one, and obviously I couldn't.

[It's too bright and angry and barbed and all pointed inwards, because he knows damn well that the only person to blame for this is himself, so why bother fighting it? He knows whose fault it is right now, and that's where his focus is: stuck in a spiral of self-hatred that had easily subsumed whatever confidence he'd been feeling before his death. Second verse, same as the first, a little bit louder and a whole lot worse.]

It's always when I get confident that things go to shit.

[Evidently he's not allowed to feel good about himself without immediately fucking it up. Story of his life.]