It's happening again. The anxiety. My brain spins off its axis and whirls ahead of me. I sprint to catch up, grasping desperately for my runaway thoughts, but my legs turn to mush. They feel the way grandma's leftover jello looks hours after we've abandoned the Thanksgiving table. I'm left behind my frenzied brain as it pirouettes into the past, the present and future, alighting on whatever causes it the most agony. Life! Death! Good! Bad! Sincere! False! Real! Fake! Try! Quit! Succeed! Fail! Save Money! Pay The Bills! Am I a Good Person! Self Hate! Lazy! Talentless! No Willpower! Fat! Lose Weight! I've heard of these anxiety attacks, if that's what this is. The words bandied about in casual conversation, as common as ultra modern phrases like 'my therapist says' and 'anti-depression pills'. What's wrong with me? Everyone seems to live their lives, effortlessly gliding along, afloat on air mattresses of self esteem powered by reservoirs of raw talent. Yet here I flail, wildly dog paddling in my frantic efforts to keep my heavy head above water. Do others perceive me as I see them? Self assured, confidently striding through life, or do they see through my finely honed facade of fearlessness? Are others like me? Filled with self doubt. Haphazardly slapping together bricks of resolve mortared with false confidence to keep their swampy souls from flooding the neighborhoods the perfect people call home. You don't need to wear your pain like a badge, reveling in your suffering self. But let me peer into a crack in your armor every now and again. Invite me to a peep show where one of your flaws is the headliner. I need to know you're human too.