The poem of the Anxiety Attack. I have many of these, but this is written the best, and it captures the feeling of my own anxiety attacks. They vary in intensity and the context of the panic, but they are so like... well, this. ^^'

Part of my way of dealing with and understanding my own illness is to write and be frank about it. ^w^ So critique is welcomed.

Text for those who can't read the file:

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"Episode"

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Poetry rips through me
Like the starry epiphany on the screen
Of the old analog TV—

This is the sound of western wind not blowing;
Not blowing but yes blowing
Phasing backward, guilty and unnoticed by the leaves of grass—

Lightning builds in this plasticized socket.
Intensity is violet-green.
I feel rafters burn right through me.

From the blue of after-sunset
To a green that’s mechanical
And maniacal.
And medical.

Electrocution

And I sit in the chair with no defense
I wait to ride out into the colorless waves of sunset
All I feel is that I know
I haven’t said anything.
All I can think is that I know
I can’t reject the sting
And I’m not in a baby-proofed house—
I’m alive and pigmented.
All I can feel is that I know
I am inside my own frozen tyranny
With a mouth full of my own paste—
And it should be on the page;
It should be undone.
But it’s already done—
And I didn’t say a thing.

So I jam my own gun
So I go back to the old duel again
And I ride away.
So I hide.

The socket blows
The fuse explodes.

So I hide.