The song sounds like the collision of three different Swift eras: There’s the lacquered synth-pop of 1989, the neurotic image analysis of reputation, the dense lyricism of folklore and evermore. Swift and trusted collaborator Jack Antonoff keep the production simple—a methodical drum loop, simmering synths—focusing in on a series of vignettes in which Swift is haunted by past mistakes. The verses are full of surprises, and a bit unruly; it’s almost like, after writing circles around her peers for ages, Swift got bored and set herself on absurd little challenges: Quadruple the rhymes in the prechorus? (Possibly) call back to 30 Rock? Imagine the twisted aftermath of your own murder? All these moments call attention to themselves, leaving a stronger impression of the song’s quirks than of the welcome levity it brings to Swift’s habit of self-mythologizing. She’s right that it’s sometimes exhausting to root for her, though not always for the reasons she thinks.