You are an ocelot; what are you seeking?

Zinc, C, and echinacea notwithstanding
By Friday I was boiled dogshit—throat
On fire, my head a yard thick and expanding,
My energy inchoate and remote.
I called in sick; then, much to my chagrin,
Watched as the skies spewed forth a world of ice
The likes of which would certainly have been
An adequate "I'm staying home" device.
Instead I have a sick day to amend
By working late this week. Of all the gall!
At least the cold seems mostly at an end—
Maybe the zinc was useful after all—
Only a deep, sporadic cough remains,
The yield of which is either snot or brains.