My chest feels tight. As if someone has wrapped a belt around it. I am short of breath. I need to focus on taking deep breaths. It feels easier to do that hunched over. My heart is racing. I can feel it beating. I have the constant urge to look over my shoulder. As if whatever it is I am running from will be there next time. Caught up with me. Taking me down. I want to run away. I don’t want to be near people. But I can’t. Not here. It’s not an option. Not in this uniform. Not in this place.

It passes. It always does. The pressure on my chest has eased, I can breathe normally without thinking about it, my pursuer has stopped chasing. For now.

The word “anxiety” did not cross my mind when these episodes began happening to me. When I finally told someone about them, it was the first thing they said. Was it a relief to hear that? I mean, at least there was a plausible explanation. Anxiety is medically recognised. There’s an NHS page about it. I could get help for it. People have time off work because of it.

But why am I suffering from anxiety? Why now? It comes on suddenly and goes away just as quickly. But I never know when it will strike next. It is always on my mind.

I’ve not had it before. I’ve certainly been anxious. God, you can’t be as socially awkward as me without getting anxious at some point. But the debilitating, seemingly random attacks on the normal functions of my body are new.

I thought it had gone away. A while ago, those feelings were suddenly absent. My days were clear of them. I didn’t feel like I could call myself an anxiety sufferer. I didn’t feel like I suffered enough. To put myself in the same category as those who need medication, sick notes, would be fraudulent.

But then they came back.

I’ve been drinking chamomile tea, with its supposed calming qualities. But other than that, I don’t really know what to do. I can’t get over the feeling that I’d be wasting a doctor’s time. I’m just waiting for it to pass.

By writing this, I am hoping getting it out of my head will be beneficial. By publishing it, I don’t know. Maybe someone will read it who can identify with it. Maybe they will be able to tell me that yes, I am right, that’s definitely anxiety, because I had it and here’s how I cope with it. Maybe they will see a bit of themselves in my descriptions and feel comforted that it’s not just them.

Maybe there’s no point at all. But I wish it would stop.