I start, Dear Anxiety, you funny little thing . . . I like seeing my anxiety as cute and endearing in its earnestness, much like the kid at the sport carnival who pushes super hard in the 200-meter race, all red in the face, about to explode. I go on to acknowledge what it’s up to, what it’s feeling. I continue with “No bloody wonder . . .” and validate why it’s got itself worked up. No bloody wonder you’re wobbly—you’ve been left in limbo for three days over a work outcome yet again. Plus you feel like you’re in a rut, unable to get a clear view of why you’re living.
