If Anxiety Had a Voice, This Is What It Would Say

By - AK

You ever try to sleep with a whisper in your ear? Not yelling. Just constant, quiet noise.

That’s me. I’m Anxiety.

I don’t scream. I don’t shout. I don’t need to.

I sit in the back of your head, pulling the same string over and over.

“What if?”

Two words. A million worries.

I’m the voice that tells you your friend didn’t reply because they’re mad.

That everyone is secretly tired of you.

That people are only being nice because they feel bad for you.

I make you reread messages ten times before sending them, and twenty times after.

Just to make sure you didn’t say something “wrong.”

I’m the chill in your chest before a conversation.

The pounding heartbeat in your ears when nothing’s even happening.

You think I’m trying to ruin your life.

But the truth is—I’m trying to protect you.

I show you what could go wrong before it happens.

I warn you. I prepare you.

I try to keep you safe, even if that means never moving forward.

That’s the problem, isn’t it?

I don’t care if it’s your birthday, your first date, or a lazy Sunday.

I show up.

I remind you of what might go wrong.

What might fall apart.

What might be taken from you.

I make you doubt compliments.

I turn love into panic.

I make you feel like you're faking your happiness—and that someday, people will find out.

You can be in a room full of people who love you, and I’ll still whisper,

“You don’t belong here.”

You could have 100 things go right, and I’ll zoom in on the 1 that didn’t.

Sometimes, you fight me.

You do the thing anyway.

You go to that event. You speak up. You take the risk.

You tell someone how you feel.

And when nothing bad happens, when the world doesn’t fall apart, I go quiet…

For a while.

But then I come back.

Because that’s what I do.

I’m not your enemy.

But I’m not your friend, either.

I’m a survival system that got stuck in overdrive.

I’m a safety alarm that goes off even when there’s no fire.

I say things like:

“You’re not good enough.”

“They’re going to leave.”

“You’ll mess this up.”

“You should stay quiet.”

“You should stay home.”

“You should stay small.”

But what I’m really saying is:

“What if you get hurt again?”

That’s it. That’s my deepest truth.

I’m not trying to punish you. I’m trying to stop you from falling.

But I’ve forgotten how to let you fly.

Some days, you listen to me. You cancel plans. You shrink. You freeze.

You don’t try. You don’t ask. You don’t speak.

Other days, you rise.

You breathe deeply.

You ignore the knot in your stomach.

You keep walking, even with me at your side.

I hate those days.

But I also… respect them.

Because they mean you’re getting stronger.

When you write in your journal, when you text your friend, when you say,

“Hey, I’m feeling anxious today,”

you take away some of my power.

When you go for a walk,

eat something,

drink water,

listen to music,

do something kind for yourself—

You’re reminding yourself:

I’m here, but I’m not in control.

And that scares me.

Because I know that one day, you might stop listening altogether.

You might learn to separate me from truth.

So if you hear me whispering again tonight, remember this:

I’m not always right.

I’m not always helpful.

I’m not always real.

I’m just a voice. A loud one, sure. But still, just a voice.

And you have another one—the one that wants peace.

The one that wants joy.

The one that believes in healing.

You don’t have to shut me out.

But you don’t have to give me the mic, either.

Not tonight.

Not anymore.