>So this is where the title of the story goes. I will title it "the death of the worm."

Of course. There is only one thing to do. The disgusting little worm— which is to say you— realizes that it has no escape. You are after all within the chassis of GOD, and subject to the full scope of GOD's power. This is incontrovertible. You quake with the force of this knowledge— or, being a worm, you squirm with it— and at last are made to accept it.

The one thing to do is to die. Worm lifespans are paltry; you are dead nearly as soon as you live, so this represents no great change. Indeed, you are relieved to be getting on with it. The weakness of your mud-body has always disgusted you. Now you may be rid of it, and you may return to the void where you belong, ridding GOD of Its distracting itch. You are joyous to have helped GOD in such a way.

Of course, the question remains of how best to destroy yourself. You mull it over carefully, settling at last on the option that will best please GOD: you will devour your own mud-body. You will unhinge your worm jaw and latch it onto your worm tail and begin to gnaw. Your worm mouth will fill with your own blood. Your worm teeth will snap your own bone. Your worm scales will scrape your own gums. You will be stricken with terrible pain, but a terrible pleasure will drive you forward, forcing your tail down your throat (it boils in your stomach acids), then your toes, which you snap off one-by-one, then your feet, then your legs, then your torso, which bulges with your own flesh, but which you nevertheless must, absolutely must, consume, though you're crazy with pain and terror— of course you are terrified of this all-encompassing consumption, and also GOD's inescapable will, which drives you forward in such a