Anxiety.

It always starts the same: with a thought.  A singular entity whose stark silhouette stands coldly against a black background waiting for me to acknowledge it.  I do.  I tell myself that it's there, that one thought, standing there staring at me.  Do something, it says.  Just fucking do something.  

I do.  Against my will, I do what I can to quell this thought, this monster that is still standing there, waiting.  For what, I'm not sure.  But I have to figure it out, I have to have the answer for it or it will keep staring at me, waiting.  Waiting for an answer I don't have.  It will glare at me with disdainfully sharp eyes and mock me, tell me how inadequate I am.

You are nothing, it will say.

My actions will become more panicked, more urgent.  I need an answer.  Need one.  My stomach is starting to hurt, my body is beginning to sweat like an onion in a steamer.  

I just need it to go away, anything to make it go away.  But I know by this point that there is no answer.  I don't have the answer at the moment.  So I turn on the T.V., trying to get the entity to calm itself, for now it is cursing at me, clawing at my insides.

The T.V. is nothing but a drone and a blur of muted colors.  I turn some music on and sing along.  But my stomach hurts and I feel too out of breath to continue.  The entity is now sitting on my chest. I never knew that a thought could make it hard to breathe.

The only way to make it stop is to purge myself, to cry, to throw things, to thrash about, to flail my arms in the air until I become to exhausted to even remember that the entity is still sitting there waiting.

When I wake it is gone.  But only for a time.