I sat in the waiting room staring at my hands, willing them to stop shaking. Anxiety was a fighter jet, roaring through my cells, dropping grenades from head to toe.

When the doctor called my name I shuffled after her, a shrunken version of a self I no longer recognised. Fixing her eyes on a computer screen, she hammered the keys and asked me to explain why I was there.

Journalist Jill Stark.

When I told her I was experiencing what felt like an acute recurrence of the depression and anxiety I’d grappled with since I was a teenager she pushed a sheet of paper across the desk and I began to tick boxes.

During the last 30 days, how often did you feel hopeless? … During the last 30 days, how often did you feel so nervous that nothing could calm you down? … How often did you feel so sad nothing could cheer you up?