Anxiety is a bitch.
Sometimes I feel it grab hold of me. It starts by clinging to my ankle and slowly but surely climbs me like some wind-worn mountaineer making its way to the top. I want to swat at it, to tell it to back up off me because ain’t nobody got time for this. But, before I know it, it’s clutching my throat. Once its icy, Voldemort-like fingers are pressed there, making breathing an arduous task, I know the real struggle has begun. It’s much harder to shake the feeling of constant panic once it’s reached this level.