Coexisting with worry

around the clock with my inner anxieties

I worry from 7am until 7pm, as if worry itself is my job. This worry is mostly about communication, though not any one thing in particular. Emails, texts, calls—it doesn’t matter. I worry that someone is waiting for me to reply, that I’ve forgotten something crucial, that I’m falling behind. I worry when my phone dings; I worry when it’s silent. I even worry when my body whispers its simple needs: a meal, a glass of water, a moment to breathe.

In a world of 24/7 communication, I suppose I should be grateful that my communication worry only works day shifts. But daylight hours perpetuate the illusion of urgency, the idea that I must catch up, catch my breath, catch a break. The hours stretch long, relentless, exhausting.

When 7pm rolls around, the communication worries clocks out.

But there is no reprieve.

That’s when the night worries take over.

Night worries specialise in catastrophes. They latch onto the faintest flicker of fear and inflate it into something unmanageable. A small thought becomes a sprawling, cinematic disaster. They sneak into my dreams, turning sleep into another theatre for their work. Occasionally, they wake me to review their progress, ensuring I spend the midnight hours immersed in their chaos.

By morning, they pass their tangled threads back to the communication team, and the cycle begins again.

My life feels like an intricate web of worries:

I worry about what others think of me. Did I laugh too loudly the last time we met? Do they find me tiring—or worse, boring? When they see my name light up their phone, do they sigh and think, I’ll deal with that later? I worry they’ve forgotten why we became friends in the first place.

I worry about getting sick. Every morning in the shower, I check for lumps under the pouring water. What if I’m checking wrong? What if I’ve misread the instructions? Worse still, I worry about others getting sick—worries that multiply, unchecked.

I worry I’m falling behind. That everyone else is living a fuller, brighter life while I’m stuck in the slow lane. I wonder if I’ve spent so much time worrying that I’ve missed my moment. I worry I wouldn’t recognise *there* even if I arrived, staring it in right the face.

I worry that I try too hard to matter. That everything I create is pointless, adding only to the world’s endless noise. I worry I’ve wasted time—time that could have been spent doing something significant, like reading War and Peace or running a marathon. And instead, here I am, writing about worry.

I worry about every single thing I touch: my work, my hobbies, even my own thoughts. I worry it’s not good enough, that I’m not good enough. I worry others think so too but won’t say it—or worse, that they will. And even when someone offers a compliment, I worry they don’t mean it.

I worry as if I’m competing for some grand title: Congratulations, you are the world’s top worrier! Your reward? Eternal worry. Now, go forth and worry more.

I worry that one day, my body will reach its limit. That it will crumple under the weight of endless stress, leaving behind nothing but a collapsed shell of what I used to be.

Most of all, I worry that no amount of self-compassion, no routine of regulation or restoration, will ever quiet this constant hum of anxiety. That my lifelong companion—this gnawing, relentless worry—will forever shadow me, dimming joy with its shroud.

And yet, oddly, I feel hopeful, despite the worry.

Worry is a part of me, and I think it always will be. It’s hard to shake something that has so deeply and complexly attached itself to you. Like a Portuguese man o’ war, my worry wouldn’t survive without me, nor I without it. And yet, I believe there’s a way to coexist.

My worry has served me well at times. It’s stopped me from stepping into dangerous situations. It walked me to the doctor when my periods ceased, and never returned. It quit bad jobs and ended toxic friendships. My worry, for all its overreaching, has my best interests at heart—it just works in overdrive.

Kindness and compassion towards my worry seem to be the way forward. To understand and acknowledge its concerns without letting them dominate. To listen, but also to reassure. I imagine letting my day worries nap on the job and encouraging my night worries to pop their feet up for a while.

I’d tell them it’s okay, that I’m going to take over for a bit. Thank them for their hard work, but remind them they can rest until they’re truly needed.

Hopefully, you enjoyed this post, if you did I would be eternally grateful if you would share/restack so I can reach more people like you ♥️

Have a lovely day, Allie ☁︎

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