Anxiety feels like acid in your stomach, the kind that doesn’t belong there, the kind of acid you imagine lurks in batteries and eats away at everything. It’s the feeling of constant distraction, of restlessness that demands rest, the feeling that tells you to stay still but makes your thoughts move, running into each other, constantly apologizing for the trouble.
Sorry. My fault.
Anxiety feels like apologizing weeks after the fact. It feels like looking at something someone else tells you is sad and thinking nothing because you feel like you had the thought hours ago: “not good.” Anxiety is hearing “not good” in your head until nothing seems good, not even the stuff you know feels good, the stuff you want all the time, the stuff that the other stuff is keeping you from.
Anxiety feels like not being able to separate stuff.
Anxiety feels like pausing to…
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