Anxiety is a very generous word, so generous that it makes a
lot more sense in the plural, anxieties. This is because, like a large
umbrella, a load of elements can fit under it.
However, despite its multitude of disturbances and manifestations, anxiety can
be traced back to quite simple and predictable stress triggers. In its origins,
it is much more visceral and organic than people imagine.
A common trigger, for example, is hunger. You can lose hunger, overeat, stick
to a crash diet, all as a neurovegetative expression of stress.
Irritability is another trivial trigger. You are more easily irritated, frustrated,
and angry over nothing, cultivating an inner anger, sometimes silent, sometimes
explosive.
Loneliness is also an important trigger. It is a complex feeling that includes
inadequacy, weakened belonging, nostalgia for everything that has already happened and for
everything that cannot happen. It is a mood that can be thoughtful, rueful,
self-defeating, filled with neediness and dependence.
Fatigue, finally, is the most common of all triggers. You may notice this
mentally with impaired thinking, physically with exhaustion, overwork, and
worry. There is also cognitive fatigue, typical of those who need to make
successive, objective, and rational decisions at short intervals; and emotional
fatigue, typical of people who feel they are experiencing affective stagnation.
These triggers, converting from one into another, mark stress as the primary
cause of anxiety. You may be tired or bored and have an increased appetite or
become irritable. Likewise, you can lose your appetite when irritated or
grieved, feel tired after a frustrating day at work and so on.
From stress to anxiety disorder, there is a gradual aggravation of the
frequency and intensity of these triggers, often twisted by a first emotion
originating another secondary, irascible, lasting, and marked by anguish. A
panic attack, for example, is a symptom of anxiety rather than a simple stress
response.
When my father fell ill in his final days, the lyrics of Shawn Mendes’ In My Blood became an unexpected refuge, helping me process the reality unfolding before me. The song’s plea — its raw, urgent cry against the weight of helplessness — resonated in a way that felt almost too personal. “Help me, it’s like the walls are caving in” — those words captured the suffocating dread that gripped me in the small hours, waiting for news, hoping for a miracle I already knew would not come. The song does not offer easy comfort; nor does it deny the pain of endurance. Instead, it acknowledges the struggle — the desperate search for strength when every instinct urges collapse. “I just wanna give up, but I can’t.” That was it, exactly. The exhaustion, the emotional erosion, the moments when hope felt like a cruel joke. And yet, beneath it all, an unspoken defiance: the fight continues, not because it is easy, but because surrender is unthinkable. The grief that followed those long hours ...
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