Drowning in numbers

What kind of wicked irony is this?

That the thing I love doing the most

is inadvertently a gateway to an anxiety abyss

That the paradox exists:

in wanting to tell stories because I can’t not tell them

and the telling gives me life

but after they are told the panic and worry

and shivers begin, causing me hidden strife

can I pay any amount of money to rid myself of this mental unease*

please

please

please.

*In the first draft of this poem, I used the word ‘disease’ rather than the phrase ‘mental unease.’ I began to agonize over this: Was I implying that in my condition, I suffer more than those who have a physical disease? After all, mine isn’t visible. Except if you catch me on a day like this and look into my eyes. And so the over-thinking commenced. And I felt myself getting to the point of being sick with worry, and so I quickly replaced the word to gain peace of mind. I thought I should be honest about my experience in writing this particular piece. It has happened quite often with my writing. I have so much more to say and express, but I feel held back by my anxiety.

How funny (not really) is it that in writing a poem describing how sometimes my writing causes me anxiety, my writing actually caused me anxiety?

But truly that is how extreme anxiety works. It is an every day thing. Affecting all from the massive to the minute. Worry over most little things. Worry over being misunderstood. Worry over causing offence. Worry over loved ones and their well-being. Worry over everything. Feel guilty because you can’t stop worrying. Obsess over it. Compulsively engage in all sort of mental acrobatics to escape. Tummy clenches, pain behind both ears (like that pain from sucking sour things.)It is exhausting, frustrating and debilitating. Especially when all I want to do is write and live healthily and help. Tomorrow will be better.