The anxiety had been mounting over several days, and, just like every time it breaks through, it feels as inexplicable and scary as the first time. This wave crashed as I was in the middle of sweeping the floor. Had I not been occupied by the task and instead been sitting(more) idly, I would have felt the impact much more powerfully, I'm sure. It pours through me as if I was an open door, but I don't run screaming, or go fetal on the ground. I could have used a pill.
The comparison of anxiety to a wave best describes the process that unfolds inside me, my brain, or wherever it is. Slowly, tension accumulates in the form of a flutter felt in different parts of my body. Meanwhile, the pressure in the mind has risen several atmospheres, and before I know it, my sense of humor has sunk, and my thoughts are all turning down, down, down, caught in an undertow pulling out to sea. Suddenly, my only concern is with these strange thoughts and feelings, their source and their significance. Is this shakiness the onset of the dreaded delayed side effects of the big bad drug I'm currently taking, for anxiety ironically, that will render me unemployable. Are these swelling worries and sensations generating the wave, or are they the wave itself? You can stir the water with these questions, maybe, but you're not going to touch bottom.
The cascade takes me and, for a moment, it's all I feel. Not a tsunami, perhaps, but strong enough to daze me. This is as real as any external happening, and in its urgency and power, utterly mysterious. I've read that many writers, especially writers, inhabit seascapes such as these. We are the ships, the sailors, and the sand.(less)