ANXIETY

Anxiety doesn't knock. It doesn't wait on the porch or clear its throat politely. It bursts in, uninvited, dragging cold air behind it, settling on my chest as if it owns the place. It breathes with me, but faster. It steals the air before I can use it. It makes me feel like I'm living inside a body that doesn't belong to me.

Sometimes I think anxiety is an animal. A restless creature pacing inside my ribs, scratching at the walls, pushing against my bones, desperate to escape. Other times I think I'm the one trapped inside it, wandering through a house with no windows, listening to my own footsteps echo back at me.

The kitchen is quiet, but my mind isn't. The lights flicker. I can't tell if it's the bulb or my vision. The clock says 11:47, but it could be any hour. Time loses shape when the mind speeds up. Dirty dishes pile up like evidence of crime I didn't commit. Anxiety looks at me and whispers, "You can't handle this." And I believe it. Every time.

I sit on the edge of the bed, feet touching the cold floor. The cold grounds me, reminds me I'm still here, even when I don't want to be. My hands shake -not from fear, but from excess. Excess thoughts, excess possibilities, excess endings I invent before anything even begins.

Anxiety is an expert in endings. It never lets me see the beginning.

Outside, a car passes with loud music. For a moment, I wonder what it feels like to live without this knot in my throat. To walk without scanning every shadow, every sound, every glance. To exist without having to justify every breath.

I walk to the window. The city is still alive, even if I feel suspended. Lights blink like they're winking at me, like they're saying, "You not the only one." But anxiety doesn't want company. It wants me alone. It wants me tired. It wants me small.

I inhale deeply. The air enters, but it doesn't fill. It's like drinking water from a cracked glass -nothing stays, nothing soothes.

I look at my hands. Short nails, dry skin, tense knuckles. Anxiety leaves marks that no one else can see. I wonder how many times I've lived this same moment, this same night, this same internal trembling that never shows on the outside.

Anxiety is an endless repetition. An echo that refuses to fade.

I slide down to the floor, back against the wall. The silence is heavy, almost solid. Sometimes I think that if I could open my chest and let everything spill out, the world would stop for a second. Just one second. Just long enough to rest.

But anxiety doesn't rest. It pulses with me. It breathes with me. It follows me like a shadow, even when the lights are off.

I close my eyes. I listen to my heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Each beat is a reminder that I'm still here, even when I don't want to be. Each beat is a protest, a stubborn insistence, a small victory.

Anxiety doesn't leave. But neither do I.

And maybe -just maybe- that counts as resistance.