The most wonderful time of the year isn't always the most relaxed.

On the first day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: The strong urge that I am going to screw everything up.

On the second day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Two panic attacks during a final review.

On the third day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Three unrequited loves and obsessive tendencies.

On the fourth day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Four impulsive decisions that I'll regret for the rest of my life.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Five nights of insomnia and sleep apnea.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Six extreme amounts of family obligation and forced conversation.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Seven too many holiday parties with family you've met once.

On the eighth day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Eight cases of body dysmorphia caused by too many Christmas cookies and societies' beauty expectations.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Nine hours of running around the mall bowing down to consumerism.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Ten entire days of hiding in my room, avoiding society and listening to Christmas music.

On the eleventh day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Eleven instances of disappointing everyone I know.

On the 12th day of Christmas, my anxiety gave to me: Twelve years of remembering that everything is temporary, and we are all going to die.