I cough uselessly. I’m amazed that I haven’t passed out yet with this 100 pound weight pressing on my chest. I can’t inhale, nor can I fully expel the stale air from my lungs. My diaphragm doesn’t seem to be working.

My heart races, fluttering in my chest as if replaced by a hummingbird. My breastbone is numb, save for a vague itch.

I see everything through a fog, and all that comes through is the worst. My eyes frantically search for a point of relaxation, with no success.

I feel isolated muscles spasming with varying levels of intensity. Some are simple twitches, others send my hand across the desk or my head onto my lap. I hear someone far away ask if I’m alright.

Minutes feel like hours as the panic attack subsides. My pulse returns to normal, my lungs fill with air, and my vision becomes clear. For some, this would have been a truly terrifying experience, but, while still disturbing, it’s commonplace for me.

General Anxiety Disorder is a bitch.