Living with Anxiety: A Daily Balancing Act

Anxiety is a strange beast. 

It’s deeply rooted in our evolution—a survival mechanism designed to protect us. When we’re in danger, anxiety kicks in like an internal alarm system, triggering the fight-or-flight response that pumps adrenaline through our veins, sharpens our senses, and helps us act quickly. It’s the reason our ancestors avoided predators and lived to tell the tale. In short, anxiety exists to keep us safe.

But what happens when that alarm won’t turn off? When it’s stuck in the ‘on’ position? When the threat isn’t a lion lurking in the bushes, but a text you haven’t replied to, a conversation you haven’t had yet, or a decision you made three weeks ago that you still can’t stop replaying in your head? That’s when anxiety stops protecting us and starts becoming something else entirely—exhausting, overwhelming, and at times, utterly crippling.

This is what it’s like to live with anxiety in the modern world. It’s more than just worrying. It’s a constant tug-of-war between your instincts and your reality. It’s a constant push and pull between what your mind feels and what the world tells you is reasonable. It’s a relentless battle between what your impulses are screaming and what logic is trying to whisper back. 

It can be isolating, confusing, and exhausting. But no matter how alone it might feel, you’re not; so many of us are quietly fighting the same battle behind brave faces and tired smiles.

In a moment of deep contemplation, a girl sits with her hand resting on her forehead, embodying the weight of overthinking.

Have you ever been called "dramatic"? 

I have. More times than I can count. It’s one of those words that sticks—like you're somehow choosing to feel things too deeply, or reacting for effect rather than survival. Being labelled dramatic can make you question your own reality, your own experiences. But the truth is, when you're living with anxiety, you're not performing—you’re enduring. The reactions might seem intense from the outside, but inside, they’re the result of a storm you didn’t ask for and can’t always calm.

Have you ever been accused of "attention seeking"?

I have. More times than I can count. Those words sting. Not because they’re true, but because they dismiss a battle you fight daily—mostly in silence. Trying to explain anxiety to someone who hasn’t lived it is like describing a thunderstorm to someone who’s only ever seen sunshine. It's not about seeking attention; it's about trying to hold yourself together when everything inside feels like it's falling apart.

Have you ever been told you "overthink everything"?

I have. More times than I can count. And for a long time, I genuinely believed that overthinking and being cautious were the same thing. In my mind, I was just being careful, trying to avoid mistakes and stay one step ahead. But looking back now, I can see how many incredible opportunities I missed out on—opportunities that slipped through my fingers simply because I was too busy thinking about them instead of living them.

Relationships have crumbled under the weight of my overthinking. I’ve questioned every word, every glance, every pause. I’ve convinced myself that someone’s love wasn’t real because I couldn’t stop dissecting their tone or their phrasing. I’ve ended things—not because I didn’t care, but because my brain insisted it was doomed anyway. That it "wouldn’t work," so why even try?

When I try to explain what it’s like to have a conversation with me, I often say this: by the time you've finished your sentence, I’ve already played out every possible scenario in my head. I’ve explored the best-case, worst-case, and twenty shades in between. And even after a decision is made, my brain won't let go of it. Not because I want to dwell or make a scene, but because that one decision now drags behind it a tangled mess of guilt, regret, and “what ifs.”

Lost in thought, a young boy grapples with the weight of overthinking, his hand resting on his forehead in contemplation.

People often assume anxiety is just worrying too much.

Worrying is part of it, yes—but if I were to visualise it for you, anxiety feels more like this: imagine someone you love is in danger. You can see them. You know you need to get to them. But there’s a car crushing your body, pinning you down. You can see the countdown ticking on a clock. You know what’s at stake. You want to move. You need to move. But you can’t. That’s the panic. The guilt. The helplessness. And even when your logic says, “this isn’t that serious,” your body still reacts like the world is ending.

So when someone tells me to “just let it go,” it honestly feels like they’re saying, “You’ve got a stab wound? Just put a plaster on it.” 

If only it were that simple. Letting go, for me, would be like finally being able to take a full breath after holding it my entire life. And I do want that. I want peace. I want quiet. I want to stop feeling everything all the time.

I know anxiety is something I will live with forever. If I let it, it will keep holding me back—blocking love, success, happiness, even day-to-day joy. But I’ve learned to develop some strategies to reclaim space in my mind, and sometimes it means taking myself out of a situation—physically, emotionally, or even spiritually. For me, that might look like:

• A warm bath, and Pinterest open on my phone while I design my fantasy wardrobe for the imaginary house I just bought with my imaginary lottery winnings.

• Sitting in the garden, letting the sun warm my skin while I listen to a meditation.

• Occasionally, it’s even impulsively booking a cheeky holiday—because planning gives me something safe to pour my energy into.

  
  

Do these things “cure” anxiety? Of course not. But they give me a lifeline when I feel like I’m drowning.

A supportive gesture as a man offers comfort by placing a hand on another person's shoulder, creating an atmosphere of empathy and understanding.

I admit, I don’t always find it easy to talk about in the moment. Sometimes I smile, put on a brave face, or say “I’m fine” when I’m anything but. Part of me worries that if I really open up, I’ll scare people off—or worse, be judged. But I’ve realised something important:

I can’t expect people to understand what anxiety isn’t if I’m not willing to show them what it is.

Yes, I still feel embarrassed sometimes. It’s not easy to let people into the chaotic inner workings of your mind. But I’ve found that when I describe it—when I use metaphors like the car analogy—they do begin to understand. And sometimes, someone hears that description and becomes the person who helps lift the car just enough for me to wriggle out.

My strategies might not work for you. And that’s okay. The key is to find what does work for you. Find the things that pull you back into yourself, the things that bring calm, the things that remind you that you are not your anxiety.

And if any of this resonated with you, my inbox is always open. You're not alone in this.

---

Footnote: I am not a medical professional. This is my personal experience, and while I hope it brings comfort or clarity to others, it is not a substitute for professional help. If you are struggling with anxiety, I truly encourage you to speak with a qualified therapist or doctor. You deserve support.