Rewrite this scene of my novel:

He was in the middle of a call when I burst into the office, slamming the door behind me like a violent gust of wind.
“You backstabbing, slimy, pathetic—”
NAME_1 held up the palm of his free hand, but I ran next to him, grabbed his phone and and threw it against a wall.
“What in the—”
“You’re lucky you’re going to die in prison, or else you would die right now.”
NAME_1 pushed himself off the desk and his office chair rolled back until the back hit a bookcase. A hardcover volume tipped over and was only deflected by his protective hands over his head, landing on the floor with a loud thump. NAME_1 was left huffing and panting, his face red and inflated like a balloon.
“Are you out of your damn mind? Do I need to call security?”