My Anxiety is a Bad Roommate

My Anxiety is a Bad Roommate

We moved in together out of necessity, not choice. I don’t even remember signing a lease, but Anxiety has been my live-in roommate for as long as I can recall. And let me tell you, they are a nightmare to share a head with.

The day doesn’t start with an alarm; it starts with them. A sudden, sharp jab to my ribcage, a internal gasp that yanks me from the warm nothingness of sleep.

“You’re awake,” they whisper, their voice like static from a dead channel. “You know that thing you said to your boss yesterday? Let’s replay that on a loop for the next hour.”

I groan, burying my face in the pillow. “It’s 6 a.m.,” I think-say, the words mushy in my own skull.

“Perfect time to catalog every single social misstep of the last decade!” Anxiety chirps, already buzzing with a corrosive energy. They’re not a visual presence, not really. They’re a pressure behind my eyes, a knot in my stomach, a constant, humming current in my limbs. If I had to picture them, they’d be all sharp angles, wearing my clothes without permission, and leaving a trail of psychic clutter everywhere they go.

By the time I stumble into the kitchen, the mess is already there. It’s not physical dirt—though they’d never do the dishes—it’s the mental debris they leave lying around. A cold, sticky puddle of dread about an unanswered email. The faint, smoky smell of a future argument I’m sure is coming. A towering, precarious stack of "what-ifs" about my health, my job, my relationships, threatening to topple over at any moment.

I reach for the coffee, my hand slightly trembling.
“Careful,”Anxiety hisses, leaning over my shoulder. “Your hand is shaking. People will think you’re unstable. Or an alcoholic. Maybe both.”

I ignore them, a practiced skill I’m only marginally good at. The first sip of coffee is a temporary blanket of warmth, but it doesn't last.

“So, the presentation is today,” they announce, as if I’d forgotten. They’ve been “helping” me prepare for it for weeks, which means running through every conceivable worst-case scenario until my throat is tight and my palms are slick. “What if the projector fails? What if you forget your words? What if they all look at you and just… know you’re a fraud?”

“I’m prepared,” I mutter aloud, the sound strange in the quiet kitchen.

“Prepared for humiliation, maybe,” they snort. “Let’s practice your opening line again. You’ll probably stammer.”

This is their specialty: unsolicited, destructive feedback. They’re the worst kind of critic, one who lives in your own home and has access to all your insecurities. They feed on them, growing fatter and louder with every fear they can validate.

The day unfolds as a series of skirmishes. Getting dressed, Anxiety holds up every item like a prosecutor. “This shirt makes you look like you’re trying too hard. Those pants highlight everything you had for dinner last week.” I end up wearing a safe, boring outfit that feels like a uniform of surrender.

On the commute, they’re a backseat driver from the depths of my own mind. “That car is too close. We’re going to be late. Why is your heart beating so fast? Everyone in this train car can probably hear it. They’re judging you for it.” They paint vivid, catastrophic pictures of fender benders and public failures until the world outside the window feels like a threat.

At work, during the presentation, they are at their most vicious. As I stand before my colleagues, my notes feel flimsy and useless. Anxiety is pacing at the back of my mind, a director panicking on opening night.

“Your voice is too high,” they whisper. “You’re speaking too fast. Now you’re too slow. They’re bored. See? Sarah just checked her phone. It’s over. You’ve lost them.”

My palms sweat. My heart hammers against my ribs, a frantic bird trying to escape the cage they’ve built. For a terrifying moment, my mind goes blank. It’s not empty; it’s filled with the roaring static of their panic.

But then, I remember the boundary I’ve been trying to build. It’s a flimsy thing, more like a curtain than a wall, but it’s something.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, the kind my therapist taught me. I feel the solid floor beneath my feet. I look at a friendly face in the crowd and focus on that.

“What are you doing?” Anxiety demands, their voice shrill. “Stop that! Pay attention to me! Something bad is happening!”

“Not right now,” I think, pushing the words through the static. “You don’t get to run the show right now.”

It’s not a victory. It’s a truce. The presentation continues. I find my words. The world does not end.

Back home, exhausted, the adrenaline recedes, and Anxiety slinks out of the shadows. They’re quieter now, but they’ve made a mess of the place. The air is thick with the spent energy of the day’s panic. I can’t relax. They’ve left their "what-ifs" all over the couch.

“They were just being nice,” they murmur as I scroll through post-presentation compliments on my phone. “They feel sorry for you. Tomorrow, they’ll talk about how awkward you were.”

I don’t have the energy to fight. Some days, the best I can do is acknowledge their presence and try to live around them. I order food instead of cooking because the thought of cleaning another mess is too much. I put on a familiar, comforting show, something they’ve seen a hundred times, to lull them into a sense of routine.

As I try to fall asleep, they’re still there, tidying up the day’s events into a narrative of failure and brewing tomorrow’s worries.

“You need to sleep,” they say, their voice deceptively soft. “If you don’t get eight hours, tomorrow will be a disaster. You’ll probably get sick. What if you lose your job because you’re too tired to function?”

I sigh in the dark. They’re a terrible roommate. They’re chaotic, messy, critical, and they’ll never, ever move out. But I’m learning. I’m learning to label their comments as "junk mail" instead of gospel. I’m learning to build flimsy curtains and, sometimes, even solid walls. I’m learning that the space inside my head is mine, and even on the worst days, when they’ve trashed the place, I am still the tenant in charge. It’s a daily struggle, a grind of eviction notices and messy cohabitation. But it’s my home. And I’m not leaving.