Anxiety doesn’t knock. It kicks the door in, throws itself onto my chest, makes a home in my bones like it’s always paid rent. It speaks in a voice that sounds like mine, but meaner. Tells me to rethink that text. Tells me they hate me. Tells me I looked stupid, sounded stupid, _was_ stupid. And I listen. Because anxiety doesn’t whisper it shouts. It fills the room, fills my lungs, fills my head with static until I forget what silence sounds like. People say, _it’s all in your head._ And maybe it is. But if a hurricane is in your house, does it matter if it’s real or imagined when the walls are still shaking? I tell myself to breathe. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. Like numbers can tame a beast. Like air can fix the way my hands won’t stop trembling. I tell myself _I am okay._ Even when my pulse disagrees. Even when my stomach twists itself into knots so tight I forget how to be hungry. And then, when I least expect it, it leaves. Like it was never here, like it never tore through my day, never wrecked my body, never made me question my own existence. And I sit there, in the wreckage, waiting for it to come back. Because it always does. ```audio-player [[Slap poem(Anxiety).mp3]] ``` ```audio-player [[Slap poem (Anxiety).mp3]] ```