What does it mean to be anxious? What even is anxiety?
Being anxious is hesitating on the threshold, afraid of your world collapsing around you if you step through the door. It’s late nights spent pacing your room questioning that conversation you had. It’s shaking hands, the struggle to breathe, and thoughts to fast to comprehend.
But it’s also getting out a third spoon because the first two just feel wrong and you’re going to feel bad if you eat using them. It’s stashing your chocolate away because the thought of eating it makes your stomach hurt. It’s that general uncomfortable feeling whenever you’re around someone you love. It’s living. It’s breathing.
That. That is being anxious.
That is anxiety: the inescapable. The perpetuity of always hanging on the edge of a cliff, only held up by your blood slickened fingers. The knowledge that any second now, you may fall. That even the ones you hold closest may trod, perhaps on accident, with their booted feet on your fingers. And that you may, as a result, tumble, forever, into that dark abyss.