I hate my anxiety. It grabs ahold of me violently and chokes the air from my lungs. It crawls up my fingers and rises through my arms, like slow constricting vines. It bubbles up in my throat, threatening to escape me as a scream. More like an agonizing wail. It slows me. It transports me to another world, one that I have not yet experienced. A world in which everything I love has been ripped from me, leaving a gapping hole in my heart. It brings me to my knees in surrender as I beg and plead. Sleep is my only escape. I pray when I wake it will relinquish me for some time. But I know it never truly departs me. It’s sewn into my being. A parasitic shadow of every joy I hold close.