A Day in the Life of My Anxiety

The first thing I notice is the weight. It hits before my eyes even open — a sinking heaviness on my chest, like something is pressing down to keep me in bed. My mind hasn’t even said good morning yet, but my body already knows: it’s going to be one of those days.

I stare at the ceiling. My phone vibrates on the nightstand. I don’t check it — I can’t check it. If I open it, I’ll see messages I haven’t replied to, emails I’ve ignored, reminders I’ve snoozed into oblivion. The guilt will come flooding in, and I haven’t even had coffee yet.

I swing my legs out of bed like a reluctant soldier heading to the front lines. I whisper to myself, “Just do the next thing.” It’s a trick I’ve learned. I can’t face the day, but maybe I can face brushing my teeth.

The bathroom mirror is unkind. My face looks tired, older somehow. My brain immediately starts listing everything I’ve done wrong: “You stayed up too late again. You forgot to drink water yesterday. Your skin looks like you’ve given up. Are you giving up?”

I try to ignore the monologue in my head, but it’s persistent. It doesn’t shout — not today — it hums, like background music in a horror film. Constant. Low. Unavoidable.

Breakfast is a blur. I pour cereal but don’t eat it. I scroll through social media even though I know it’ll make me feel worse. Everyone else seems to be thriving: filtered smiles, clean desks, people who wake up early on purpose. I’m comparing my worst day to someone’s best picture, and I know it’s a trap. Still, I keep scrolling.

At 9:03 AM, I sit in front of my laptop. Work begins. I check my calendar and see three meetings. The first one is in 27 minutes. My chest tightens — not because I’m unprepared, but because I have to be seen. I have to perform normal. That takes energy I don’t have today.

I rehearse what I’ll say in the meeting. I mute myself and nod at the right moments. I put “😊” in the chat so people think I’m engaged. Inside, I’m repeating one thing over and over: Don’t mess this up. Don’t let them see you’re not okay.

By 11:15 AM, I’ve answered emails, completed half a report, and hyperventilated in the bathroom twice.

Lunch is optional. I skip it.

Instead, I pace my apartment in circles. Movement helps. I do breathing exercises that my therapist taught me. Inhale four, hold four, exhale four. I try to ground myself: name five things I can see, four I can touch, three I can hear, two I can smell, one I can taste. I taste nothing. Just a lingering bitterness I can’t name.

In the afternoon, the crash comes.

It always does.

My limbs feel like sandbags. Every click of the keyboard sounds too loud. My to-do list grows longer, but my motivation shrinks. Anxiety doesn’t always look like panic — sometimes, it looks like apathy. Like staring at a wall for ten minutes because you can’t decide whether to answer a single email.

I feel guilty for not doing more. I feel ashamed for feeling guilty. I wonder if I’m broken.

I remind myself that this is not forever. It’s just a bad brain weather day. The storm will pass. It always does. But right now, it’s pouring.

At 5:34 PM, I close my laptop. I didn’t finish everything, but I survived the day. That counts.

Dinner is toast and tea. It’s all I can manage. I sit on the couch and wrap myself in a blanket, not for warmth but for containment. I need something to hold me together. I put on a comfort show — one I’ve watched a dozen times. I know all the lines. I don’t need to think. That’s the point.

Before bed, I write in my journal. Just a few lines.

"Today was hard. I showed up anyway. That is enough."

I don’t know if I believe it. But I write it down in case tomorrow is better and I can look back and see how far I’ve come.

As I lie in bed, the weight returns. Not as heavy this time. More like a quiet presence in the room — a shadow that I’ve learned to live beside. I no longer try to fight it. I just make space for it, without letting it take everything from me.

And when sleep finally comes, I am not triumphant. I am not cured.

But I am here.

And for tonight, that is enough.