Foreword / Introduction
I haven’t kept it a secret that I struggle with anxiety. I have panic attacks often, and this poem is my attempt to put those experiences into words. Some of these words are based on things told to me by someone I consider a friend, regardless of her being much older than I am. In general, every word of encouragement means more to me than I can ever properly express. I’m also really grateful to everyone who has said my poems help them, because it helps me to know that I am not the only one going through this. It’s an anchor for me, keeping me from floating away. So, thank you.
Poem: When Everything Gets Too Loud [Confessional Free Verse]
There’s a storm that builds inside my ribs sometimes,
thunder without warning, lightning without rain.
It doesn’t wait for permission or pick convenient moments,
just tears through me like I’m made of paper.
My body becomes a stranger, does things I never asked for,
and I’m trapped watching myself unravel thread by thread.
Panic isn’t loud the way people think it is,
mine is more like sinking in a sea of solid ground.
My throat becomes a locked door I can’t open,
which is almost funny since silence is already my language,
but this silence is sharper, heavier, made of glass.
My hands tremble like autumn leaves before they fall.
The worst part is the waiting between storms,
knowing my body could betray me any second.
I could be fine and then suddenly I’m drowning in air,
my brain painting disasters on the inside of my skull.
It’s like having an alarm system wired wrong,
screaming fire in an empty room, danger where there’s only shadows.
I count things when the waves start rising,
patterns on the floor, lines in the ceiling, anything solid.
My psychologist says it helps ground me but sometimes
the current is too strong and I can’t hold onto anything.
I press crescents into my palms with my fingernails,
small pains to fight the bigger one that has no shape.
People who’ve never drowned on dry land don’t understand,
they throw words like “calm down” as if that’s a switch I can flip.
Yeah, it’s in my head, that’s where the monster lives,
feeding on thoughts I can’t chase away or argue with.
Later I’ll write it all down when my hands remember how to hold a pen,
but during, I’m just trying not to dissolve completely.
My sister can tell when the storm hits by how still I go,
frozen like something hunted, barely breathing.
She has learned not to touch me because sensation becomes knives,
everything too much, too sharp, too real.
I want to climb out of my own skin but there’s nowhere to go,
so I wait for the hurricane to pass and leave me wrecked on the shore.
Afterwards I’m hollow, exhausted from fighting myself,
muscles aching from being clenched so long.
Shame creeps in even though I know it shouldn’t,
because how do you explain your body turning traitor?
I wish I could be whatever normal looks like,
wish my wiring wasn’t all tangled and wrong.
Anxiety takes ordinary things and makes them weapons,
turns a crowded room into a cage that’s shrinking.
Someone’s glance becomes a verdict on everything I’m not,
my brain writes stories of catastrophe and calls them truth.
It builds towers of terrible tomorrows that might never come,
but they feel so solid I can’t tell fantasy from fact anymore.
Sometimes I wonder if other children’s minds attack them too,
or if mine is just broken in ways that can’t be fixed.
Dad says everyone struggles but this feels like more,
like carrying bricks nobody else can see.
I’m tired of being at war with my own head,
tired of my body being the battlefield.
But giving up means letting the panic win everything,
so I keep going even when going feels impossible.
I write poems because words on paper are the only voice I have,
the only way to bleed out these feelings before they drown me.
Maybe someone will read this and feel less alone in their drowning,
maybe they’ll know broken isn’t the same as finished.
There is no ribbon to tie this up with,
no moral or happy ending to make it pretty.
Anxiety attacks still come like storms I can’t predict,
and I’m still here learning how to weather them.
Some days the sun breaks through and some days I’m soaked,
and all I can do is breathe and count and survive another one.
