It’s easier to channel anger into a cello than a clarinet (or: orchestras give me panic attacks and this makes me angry)

I love music. I love listening to music, I love making music. I’ll sit at a piano for hours and awkwardly jam by myself, or fumble through double flute concertos.

I was fifteen when I first played in an orchestra — viola, barely a year after starting the instrument. Since then, I’ve played flute, piccolo, cello, clarinet and viola in small and large orchestras and ensembles.

There’s nothing like it. But over the past two years, I’ve become resigned to another, equally unique but thoroughly dispiriting experience.

Orchestral playing gives me panic attacks. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because inner perfectionists can’t cope with a conductor’s disapproving stare. Perhaps it’s because every mistake feels like a blow delivered to someone else’s work. It could be because music is hard and music is a tapestry, that leaves the soul open and vulnerable.

Whatever the reason; orchestral playing gives me panic attack.

Not all the time, thankfully. I get through at least 30% of rehearsals without a shred of anxiety.

30% of the time, I’m restless and agitated, like there’s something itching on the wrong side of my skin and raring to bite its way through.

30% of the time, someone notices.

10% of the time, I leave rehearsal with tears still drying on my skin.

(Never early. Not anymore.)

Playing through the sobs is commonplace, now. I cut off the tip of my finger once, and playing through tears is a little like the feeling of wet cloth wiping away the blood; sandpaper against raw flesh. Rough pain, gratingly honest.

Not playing is bitter and shameful. Not playing is inadequacy, and pitying looks. Not playing is a haunting hollow ache.

Today, I pushed into my windpipe till it hurt to breathe. The rest of my air went into a rusty old baritone saxophone. I didn’t cry till I’d cleaned each of my instruments, packed them away safe and sound.