(Note: this post is part of a series about navigating my way through the 10 Rules for Coping with Panic, which is a nifty little list I keep in my wallet. To read the introduction to this series, check out this post: Coping with Panic: Why I Can’t, and Why I Can.)

LET’S RECAP

In case you missed my last post, here’s Rule #4:

Describe what is happening. Notice what is really happening in your body right now…not what you fear might happen.

WHY THIS IS SO DIFFICULT

Look over my little elevator monologue. Only one of my thoughts comes even close to describing the “what is.” The rest only describes the “what if.” (If you had trouble picking out the single “what is,” I’ll point it out: “I’m already feeling tense…”)

If you’ve been playing the “what if” game forever, it’s not easy to shake. It’s automatic. My brownie girl scout handbook told me 22 years ago to be prepared, and I’ve taken that lesson to heart.

WHY THIS IS SO EASY

But here’s the thing about being “prepared” (and yes, if you heard me read that sentence aloud in real life, I would do air quotes for “prepared”): it’s not always good to be prepared for everything.

Yes, you heard me right: sometimes, being prepared is not a good thing. Sometimes, being prepared can take us away from the present moment.

(Note: this post is part of a series about navigating my way through the 10 Rules for Coping with Panic, which is a nifty little list I keep in my wallet. To read the introduction to this series, check out this post: Coping with Panic: Why I Can’t, and Why I Can.)

THE FOURTH RULE

This is the rule that pits “what if” against “what is.”

And, of course, it’s the “what is” that’s supposed to win. Falling into the great trap of “what if” only helps our mind to spiral downward into a dizzying fiction.

Case in point: the other day, I had to ride an elevator in an office building to the 8th floor. (I sure as hell wasn’t going to walk — I’m out of shape, and a rapid heartbeat is a panic trigger for me!)

The interior of the elevator was pretty tiny — tiny enough that only three or four adults could fit comfortably. I stepped in, hit 8, and waited for the doors to close.

At the very last second, some guy scurried between the closing doors and snuck in. He pressed 4.

WRITING A WORK OF FICTION

Immediately, my mind went off into a world of made-up scenarios: what if this guy tries to talk to me? What if he’s creepy? I mean, I’m already feeling tense and nervous being here in this tiny elevator. And now, it’s a longer ride because we’re going to stop on the 4th floor too — what if I can’t handle being on the elevator for that long?

What if I have to stumble out on the 4th floor and then watch this mean watch me as I feign confusion and head to the stairwell? He’ll wonder why I’m headed down. And what if he asks me what I”m doing? Or tries to correct me? What if I get lightheaded and I can’t answer? What if I start to over-breathe? What if I feel like I’m going to pass out?

There’s only one rule we’re following here on Panic About Anxiety for National Poetry Month — we’re writing haiku. A haiku is a short & simple poem that’s written 5-7-5 — five syllables in the first line, 7 syllables in the middle, and 5 syllables in the last line.

That’s it. The rest is up to you.

What do you have to say about anxiety? Can you work it into a haiku?

We can’t continue doing things that we don’t like or things we’re not meant to do simply because popular phraseology commands that we strive onward.

You know that an evil clown might jump out of the closet. You know that a sudden burst of evil laughter will probably pipe out of an overhead speaker. You don’t know the precise nature of what’s about to scare you, but you’re anticipating something — anything — nonetheless.

Let’s say you had a rough day. You didn’t stick sandpaper up to today’s date on the calendar, did you?

Now, I’m not one to judge the severity of someone else’s anxiety level, but let me share a pet peeve of mine: I hate it when people use the phrase “panic attack” to describe a mild dilemma that clearly came nowhere close to launching them into that all-too-familiar downward spiral of shaking, tachycardia, dizziness, derealization, and air hunger.

Have you ever heard someone call your name while running the loud vacuum? That’s pareidolia. Ever see a cumulus cloud shaped like a giant teddy bear? That’s pareidolia. Ever see that famous piece of burnt toast that looks like Jesus? Pareidolia.

Let’s make some micro-resolutions, shall we? They’re like teeny tiny resolutions. Like fun-sized candy or something.