Under pressure

The drumbeat in my neck reminds me
It's time to run,
or faint...
Every neuron firing, all systems awake and fighting.
In a quiet room, that my mind just turned into a warzone.

It's happening again.

Holding my breath as I watch him sleep,
focusing on his foot to see if his epileptic fit is near.
Just another trigger for my dysregulated nervous system.
Not brave enough to carry the uncertain things,
with each year I bury my head a little deeper in.

Right when I think I'm getting better.

Any act of God frightens me. The impending death, illness, the dog's cancer, grandma's heart.
Internally, I am fully vested. Wearing all required equipment for impact.
An impact that isn't real.
Waiting for that other shoe
to drop.

Is this fixable?

For fucks sake, not one more word about head meds.
To replace crippling fear with a disappearing act,
my soul refuses to recognize this as a solution.

Panic disorder. Adult-onset anxiety. Post traumatic stress.
These names they give, mean nothing.
My only cure being when I hear a stranger say,
"Me too."
I crave it.

Looking in the mirror, I feel like a fucking Simon and Garfunkel song. The sad ones.
Jesus...
Is my right hand just going to shake ALL the time now?
Enter heath anxiety.
"Maybe its M.S." says the committee in the back of my head.

Twenty-five pounds down, dark circles, and wide eyed.
The funniest part, is I am seven years sober.
How did I get this burnt out from
panic?

Hide it away. Painting my face. Wearing the suit. Showing up.
Hand in hand,
like crimson and clover,
over and over.
Me and anxiety.