Tinkerbell is dead

After grad school, with a shiny new MSW, I took the next logical step. Not quite kicking and screaming, more like twitching and grumbling. I began the process to become a licensed therapist. Filled out the paperwork. Paid fees. Paid fees. Paid fees. Amassed hours. Paid more fees. Signed up for the first licensing exam. Then the thought that I'd been cramming down in the back of my head sprang out unbidden. I thought "what happens if I fail the test?" Answer = I'd be embarrassed. "What happens if I pass the test?" Answer = I won't be embarrassed. Not too much to pin a career move on. Weird thing was, I test well, and had no concerns about not passing.
All that didn't seem a very satisfactory line of musing, so I finally gave in and did some heavy thinking about this licensing thing. Turns out that basically what I can do with a license that I can't do without is bill insurance. I can put a label from the DSM on someone, and bill. Great for some, but it grates my inner anarchist.
So as far as licensing goes, I don't, I don't, I don't believe. Tink is dead.