Bursts of anxiety drop unannounced, unplanned, and unwanted from some faceless villain in the sky. They ruin perfectly mediocre days, and the ones teetering on perfect. I’ll be in a meeting, at the piano, or, heck, writing this, and feel the shadow overtake the room. Sometimes I ward it off. Usually I await my fate.

They hit with aplomb. It’s never any less of an ordeal no matter how many trips around the carousel. The heartrate skyrockets. Hands tremble. Thoughts steer dark: This is one that’s gonna kill me. I’m not enough… I’m too much. Get away from me… Hold my hand. I can’t let them see my crazy. Help me? I can’t do this!

But the bombs always stop dropping. As I lay in the reprieve of the nuclear fallout, my thoughts steer back to some semblance of normal. The paradox of loving yourself for who you are, and coping with anxiety that feels detrimental to personal progress, feels like juggling both a bowling ball and the pin it’s trying to strike down. But it’s all a part of me.

Sure, that anxiety is a neurotic, jumbled section of my puzzle. The puzzle of a painting by an Impressionist who turns Cubist every seventh hour, but a whole puzzle nonetheless. Weathering it builds strength, offers creative fodder, and grants me greater appreciation for bomb-free sunny skies.

It’s not something to cope with. It’s simply something that is. The bombings can be spent under bedsheets, slowing my breathing on my way to work, or going for a run. I’m not hiding, suppressing, or escaping, but rather taking that anxiety with me in my front pocket, patting it on the head, and letting it know it’s all going to be okay. Even when I don’t know that for sure.