Anxiety, (also called angst or worry), as defined by Wikipedia, is a psychological and physiological state characterized by somatic, emotional, cognitive, and behavioral components. It is the displeasing feeling of fear and concern.

First, what the heck does “somatic” mean. I am f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g out right now. Is anxiety worse than I really thought? What symptoms have I missed? Are there yet more elements to anxiety that I am not aware of but am likely suffering from? Yes, I know you don’t end sentences with a preposition, but if I am in a full out panic from my discovery of this rare, deadly somatic malady thing from which I will likely die, I’ll use whatever grammar I please. (Let’s see who was astute enough to catch the irony in that last sentence.)

But I digress. I consider myself an intelligent person and, since I had to look it up, I thought maybe you need to know, too. Somatic simply means “of the body” and in medical terms that means “not mental” as in illness. I stopped reading there in case there was further detail of what “of the body” entailed because I spied the word mutation on the page. I didn’t want to develop (by power of suggestion) any of the disgusting afflictions or ailments that are considered “of the body.”

Second, “It is the displeasing feeling of fear and concern” is to anxiety as dinghy is to the Titanic. The jackass that wrote that description has never, ever had a real, drain the blood from your face and render you paralyzed, panic attack.

So there you have it, the publicly accepted definition of anxiety. Now here’s mine:

The inexplicable, unpredictable, irrational physical and emotional “I am going to die a horrible, never seen before type of death RIGHT NOW and no-one can help me” response to….. nothing in particular. It also entails brooding, obsessing and constant attention to the “what might happen” versus a logical cause and effect approach to the risks of daily activities like taking an aspirin (Could I be allergic? Is anaphylactic shock a possibility or just hives if I am, in fact, allergic? Was the package safety sealed? Is it past the expiration date?)

This is my day to day life folks. I said it early on: I’m a worrier. I worry. My friends make fun of me for it, my kids say the don’t need to worry about anything because I do it for them but no-one actually complains. You know why? Because if any of these people get stuck on a desert island with me they know they’ll have snacks, bottled water and a pretty decent first aid kit- all from my purse. If their pants shrunk or if they lose a button I have the “As Seen On TV… Perfect Fit Button” pants extender that instantly makes your pants fit perfectly. If there is the sniff of a cold (bad pun) I am stocked with a mini pharmacy at all times.

While it is exhausting to worry like this, and I am the brunt of frequent jokes and mockery, I can’t stop. It’s like crack. I’ve tried to take my dad’s advise over and again: “Don’t sweat the small stuff.” He was a master of practicing what he preached. He was calm, collected and measured.

Until he got really pissed off. Then it was no holds barred. But until you got there, the small stuff just slid on by.

Anyway, I tried to adhere to my dad’s mantra but I couldn’t. Worry, I repeat, it’s like crack. I can’t get enough. I try to give it up but no amount of rehab can set me free. No twelve step process will save me. No family intervention will unravel the tangled web of worry I’ve wound over the last 46 years.

What will I do next, you ask? How will I cope with this narcotic called worry? Well, my coping mechanism is humor. Like when I got a spider bite on my butt and told my husband I was in anaphylactic shock because I couldn’t breathe. I dropped my pants in the kitchen and flipped completely out.

My husband quickly pointed out that I was, in fact, breathing because I was talking, taking actual breaths, to tell him how I got bitten and sipping on a drink while I did so.

Or the time that the cat wouldn’t eat and I thought he knew he was dying and was trying to tell us so. The truth was my spoiled Jewish cat got a taste of turkey and canned food and refused to eat food that was “below” him. I really thought he was dying and actually lost sleep because he knew and couldn’t tell us.

There’s tons more where this came from. I’m compiling some of the best for a future blog post. This was just the teaser. I hope you’ll come back and read more soon.

Got any anxiety of your own? Come on, you know you do…. Feel free to share it with me!