Letter to Anxiety

Dear Anxiety,
I struggle to understand why we seem to be extraneously acquainted with each other. When the thought crosses my mind, I see no reason for this relationship and strongly doubt the presence of any benefits that may come with it. And yet, I find myself reluctant to give it up.
Perhaps my shoulders have grown accustomed to your constant weight. After all, my mother keeps inquiring as to my incessant slouching.
Or maybe I’ve grown fond of you. Maybe the rush of accomplishment flowing through my veins in the form of euphoric adrenaline when it is you who pushed me forward has become a source of addiction. For you see, you make me proud even when you have held my head under water as I desperately fight, writhing, for breath.
Faintly, a voice in the back of my head suggests yet another possibility, one that pleads my denial for fear of the shame that would follow its admission. Perhaps, dear Anxiety, it is Attention that I love and not you that I cherish. Perhaps, dear Anxiety, I have woven your image from the string of my subconscious self. Perhaps, dear Anxiety, you are but a tapestry I hung to loom behind me for deceptive motivation. Perhaps.
So I write to you in hopes of understanding, of comprehending the reason of our conjoined existence. Do you even have a say in it? Tell me, dear Anxiety.


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