If you see me sitting across a classroom from you, or you walk past my desk at work, or you see me waiting in line at the gas station, you wouldn't know that I have clinical anxiety.

Or maybe you would.

Maybe you would notice the way I wear long sleeves, even when it's hot, so that I can twist my thumbs up into the fabric and feel just a little more out of sight. Maybe you'd see the way I am always looking around, always alert, always expecting something to pop out and scare me. Maybe you notice how I hide behind anyone I'm with. Or how quiet I can be, afraid that I'll say the wrong thing. Or how 10 minutes of communication can leave me looking exhausted.

I am often lost in the rabbit hole of my anxiety. I've been advised before to pick out the worst case scenario, and recognize that it probably won't happen. The first part comes naturally to me. I always consider the worst case scenario, often involving death or abandonment, no matter the situation. It's realizing how unlikely that result is that gets me. I am always convinced that the worst is coming. I am always mentally preparing myself.

When I send a message to a friend, I immediately feel like I’m being a burden, whether I’m asking a question or just saying hi. I decide that they don’t want to talk to me, probably ever, that they hate me. When my dog escapes past someone out the front door, I imagine him being hit by a car, though to be fair, that happened to our first Pomeranian last summer. When my boyfriend drinks with his friends, I’m consumed by the idea that he is becoming an alcoholic, even if he only does it every few weeks, or even less. When he doesn’t get home or text me when he usually does, I think he’s been in a car accident. When a stranger in Wal*mart asked me to help him find deodorant, just last week, I imagined him kidnapping me from the parking lot. I see death and disaster coming for me around every corner, and it never ends.

And yet, I don’t talk about it. I feel like I can’t. I read an article or a Facebook post about someone else’s anxiety, and for a moment, I feel relieved. I feel like I’m not the only one stuck on this ride, unable to get off. And then I feel ashamed. I say to myself that that person must have it worse than me. I get angry at myself, and feel like I should feel lucky, because I’m not that bad. But then I think that maybe that’s just the anxiety dragging me down, and I don’t know how to feel anymore. It’s a never-ending cycle where I always lose.

My dad tells me that he thinks I have low self-esteem, and I almost laugh, because I’ve known that for a long time. I know that I don’t see myself as being as good as anyone else. I know that I think my writing isn’t as good, that I’m not as funny, that no one likes me as much. What am I comparing myself to? Or who? I’ve started to realize that I don’t even know anymore.

I just know that when I say something that I think is funny, and no one laughs, I have to remind myself that it’s probably not because they hate me.

I know that when I have to ask someone a question at work, I have to convince myself that I’m not ruining their day.

I know that when I send a friend a text, I have to remind myself that they probably don’t think I’m a complete idiot. Or maybe they do, but not in a terrible way.

I know that anxiety is one bizarre situation after another. It’s making a deal with yourself that you’ll talk to the people you need to talk to today, even if that means spending the night alone on the couch with a book, because you’re too drained to do anything else. It’s finding a way to cope. It’s making promises and trying like hell to keep them. It’s a battle that you have to fight because failure is not an option. It’s just a part of my life and I can’t stop it.

Anxiety is why I have to push myself. Maybe I’ll never get out of this bizarre rabbit hole, but I can learn to live here. I can find a way to be okay. And so can you.