Anxiety- The Puppeteer of Chaos

 Hey, hi, hello—I’m still here.

And so is my anxiety.

Anxiety Illustrated: The Mental Group Chat You Can’t Mute

It’s not just with me. No, no. It’s behind my eyes, under my skin, in my chest, and (surprise!) hosting a group chat I’m not even in. Which is rude, considering it's my life they’re constantly live-texting about.

Let me introduce you to the members of the group:

First, there’s The Questioner. She’s always poking around with a flashlight, whispering, “But what if?” in the back of my mind like she’s the narrator of a true crime podcast. Then we have The Dissatisfied One, who thinks no matter what I do, it could’ve been better—and louder—and cleaner.

Speaking of cleaner, meet The Cleaning Lady. She’s got main character syndrome and zero chill. She shows up uninvited, scrubbing my mental baseboards when nobody asked her anything. She’s the reason I can’t sit still when there’s a crumb on the counter or a shoe out of place.

But wait—Bossman is here too. He’s corporate. He’s cold. He wants everything in its place and your life optimized like a project management spreadsheet. He thinks if I could just stick to a system, I wouldn’t feel like a shaken soda can with a cracked lid.

And finally, Granny. She’s the Worrier Warrior. She knows exactly what to panic about and the worst possible time to panic about it. Forgot to respond to that email two days ago? Granny’s already packed your imaginary bags for the imaginary jail you’re going to.

It’s a circus. A group chat. A simulation. And the notifications never stop.

What Is Something That Triggers It? Glad You Asked.

Being rushed!

If I’m rushed, it’s like I’m sprinting toward a bomb with five seconds on the clock and zero clue which wire to cut. It’s pure chaos. The anxiety group chat lights up. Granny is crying. Bossman is yelling. The Cleaning Lady is panicking about fingerprints on the microwave. It’s...a lot.

What Does It Feel Like?

Ever had a peeping Tom? Okay, imagine one. You know he’s out there, you think he won’t come in, and then BAM—he does. Panic kicks in. Your mind is rummaging around for a weapon, your heart is racing like it’s trying to win the Daytona 500, and breathing suddenly becomes a sport more painful than childbirth.

And that’s not even a full-blown anxiety attack. That’s Thursday.

When Do I Feel in Control?

Honestly? Whenever anxiety decides to let me.

We like to pretend we’re steering the wheel, but anyone with anxiety knows—we’re not the driver. We’re the passenger in a clown car with no brakes, a flat tire, and a GPS screaming “recalculating” while Granny insists we’re already late.

Control is borrowed. Anxiety is the puppeteer. We’re just trying not to tangle the strings too much.

To the People Who Don't Get It:

You’re lucky.

You get to walk around without five internal characters holding a hostile board meeting about whether or not you locked the front door.

But if you do know someone with anxiety—listen up:

DO. NOT. TELL US. TO CALM DOWN.

We didn’t choose to calm up, so we sure as hell can’t just calm down.

If it were that easy, we would’ve done it before the elephant sat on our chest and the heart palpitations started dancing the Macarena.

Final Thoughts from the Group Chat

Anxiety doesn’t come with a mute button. It doesn’t clock out. It doesn’t check your schedule and ask, “Hey, is now a good time to completely unravel?” It just barges in, drops its emotional baggage, and starts redecorating your nervous system.

But you know what?

I’m still here. Still standing. Still cracking jokes through the chaos. And maybe, just maybe, that means I’m stronger than I think—even if I can’t always see it through the fog of an overthinking mind.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, The Cleaning Lady just noticed a smudge on my coffee table, and Bossman has questions about my life goals.

& Exhale. That’s all I’ve got.

If I made you laugh, cringe, or question your entire existence—consider tossing a tip my way.