This is said out loud to an enemy, which tells you the tone. It is not a quiet reassurance whispered to yourself in the dark. It is defiance.
Do not gloat over me. The fall is admitted in the same breath. Micah does not argue that he is still standing. He concedes the ground and keeps the sentence going.
Think of the morning after the bad news goes public. The announcement has gone round the office, the box of desk things is on the back seat, and somebody who never liked you has already replied with something that is almost sympathy. You sit in the car and do not start it.
Though I have fallen, I will arise. The word though is carrying the whole thing. It refuses to let the fall function as a conclusion.
The chapter around it is not cheerful. It opens with the prophet grieving over a land where the faithful seem to have disappeared and trust has broken down even inside families. He decides to watch and wait for God anyway. Then this verse. And the next one admits that the fall was deserved, that the speaker has sinned and will carry the consequence. The hope here is not a claim of innocence. It is hope held by someone who knows exactly why he is on the floor.
Then the second half goes darker and holds anyway. Though I sit in darkness, the LORD will be my light. Sit, not pass through. He is not promising that the darkness ends this afternoon.
There is a kind of hope that requires you to deny the facts. This is not that one. This one says the facts are exactly as bad as they look and the outcome is still not settled.
Say it in the present tense today, from the floor. Name the fall plainly to God, without softening it or explaining it away. Then say the second half of the verse out loud, even if the room stays dark while you say it.
