My self & the Panic

An Honest Conversation Between Me and My Anxiety

It starts quietly.

A flutter in the chest. A small knot in the stomach. A sense that something—anything—could go wrong. At first, it’s easy to brush off. Just nerves, right? Everyone gets a little stressed. But before I can reason it away, it grows legs, gains weight, and plants itself firmly in my body.

This is my panic. This is my familiar stranger.

People often imagine anxiety as a loud alarm, but for me, it's more like a whisper that never leaves. It hovers. It lingers. It’s not always dramatic or visible. Sometimes it shows up in the way I cancel plans last-minute. Or in how I reread texts multiple times before sending them. Sometimes, it’s in the silence that follows a conversation, where I’m obsessing over every word I said.

"Did they think I was weird?"

"Was that a stupid thing to say?"

"Should I apologize?"

Panic doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it sits next to me, quiet and polite, pretending to help while it slowly rewires my thoughts. It tells me to prepare for the worst. To anticipate disappointment. To believe I’m not enough—never was, never will be.

Anxiety is not just fear; it’s also imagination. A wild, overactive one. It crafts vivid scenarios of failure and embarrassment so convincingly, they start to feel like memories instead of fiction. A job interview becomes a trap. A phone call becomes a confrontation. A quiet message becomes proof someone is mad at me.

And what’s worse? I know it’s irrational. That’s the cruel part. Anxiety doesn’t mean I don’t understand logic. It means my body doesn’t care. My mind knows I’m okay, but my chest tightens anyway. My palms sweat anyway. My thoughts race anyway.

Anxiety is the argument between reason and reaction, and reaction usually wins.

The Split in Me

Living with anxiety feels like living with a version of myself I didn’t choose. There's me—the rational, funny, driven one who wants to connect, create, and grow. Then there’s the other me—tense, hesitant, overthinking everything. We share the same body, but we don’t always agree.

That’s what the title "Myself & the Panic" means to me. It’s the duality. The coexistence. It’s not always a battle; sometimes it’s a negotiation. There are days where the panic is stronger, days when it gets to take the wheel. But there are other days—better days—when I remind myself that I’ve felt this before, and I survived. That I’m not my thoughts. That feelings are not facts.

Therapy helped me learn that. So did journaling, grounding exercises, even just saying out loud, “I am safe right now.” That phrase has been a lifeline more times than I can count.

The Invisible Illness

One of the hardest parts of anxiety is that it's invisible. I could be at a party, smiling, making jokes, while inside I’m trying to stop a rising tide. People don’t see the shallow breathing or clenched fists hidden in my pockets. They don’t hear the voice telling me I’m being judged, watched, or failing. They just see me. And I let them.

Not because I’m trying to deceive anyone, but because explaining anxiety often feels like trying to describe a ghost. "It’s not that bad today" or "It’s just in my head" never seem to capture the weight of it.

And yet, I'm learning to talk about it anyway.

Because silence feeds shame. And shame thrives in isolation. But honesty? Honesty builds bridges.

The more I’ve opened up about my anxiety, the more I’ve found others quietly battling their own. It’s astonishing how many of us are walking around with invisible companions—panic, worry, dread—pretending we’re okay because we don’t want to burden anyone.

But here’s what I’ve learned: people want to understand. They just need the invitation.

The Ongoing Journey

There’s no neat conclusion here. No final paragraph where I say, “And now I never feel anxious again!” That’s not how this works. Anxiety doesn’t vanish—it evolves. It softens. It sometimes screams, sometimes whispers. But I am learning not to fear it. To sit with it. To acknowledge its presence without giving it power.

I’ve stopped trying to “cure” myself. Instead, I’m trying to coexist. To live in harmony with the parts of me that feel deeply, even when those feelings overwhelm me.

“Myself & the Panic” isn’t a tragedy. It’s a story of understanding. A journey of self-awareness. And slowly, steadily, it’s becoming a story of resilience.

So, to anyone else living with their own version of panic: you’re not broken. You’re not alone. And even if it doesn’t feel like it now, you’re stronger than the fear.

Keep going. Keep breathing. Keep being kind to yourself.

Even when the panic shows up uninvited—especially then—remember: it’s a part of you, not all of you.