The Programmed People by Jack Sharkey

Bodger had only a short distance to walk to Unit B from his office. His temper, despite his efforts at self-control, was seething dangerously when he entered his foyer. He crossed the mammoth parlor toward the archway at its rear, where a short corridor led to the sleeping quarters. Bodger arrived at the door of his son's bedroom. Then, with his hand upon the knob, he froze, and a ghastly pallor spread itself across his rugged features.

A hand came up swiftly to his stomach, holding it, pressing inward against the sudden spasm he had felt, and he stepped swiftly across the few remaining feet of carpeted hallway to the door of his own room, through it, and swiftly into his personal bathroom, locking the thick door behind him. The room was swimming like a thing seen through warm oil as he slid open the mirrored panel of the medicine-chest and removed a large jar of pale granulated crystals. Violently nauseated, he managed to unscrew the lid and dump a handful of the crystals into the water tumbler. He ran the warm water into the tumbler -- it would dissolve the crystals faster -- and drank the now-glutinous solution. Then the tumbler fell from his weak, perspiring fingers and smashed into spicules in the basin. He took no notice, hands rigid against the rim of the basin, shoulders shaking uncontrollably, his large, grey-thatched head sunken wearily upon his chest. He stood like that for two minutes, until the room began to settle down, and its outlines took on solidity once more.