“What is your problem?” he asked, confused. I couldn’t hold it in any longer and yelled at the top of my voice, “I’m freaking anxious, okay?”
He froze, struggling to understand. The man who knew me, the woman he loved, the woman with anxiety—the anxiety he thought he understood as simple worry or panic—was now angry. And he didn’t understand why.
Frustrated. Irritated. These are the symptoms of anxiety nobody talks about.
And yet, the moment I said it, a wave of relief washed over me.
Because anxiety doesn’t always stay quiet inside. Sometimes it bubbles up, heavy and uncontrollable, and spills out in ways we can’t always manage. It’s not anger itself—it’s the anxiety demanding to be seen, demanding to be released.
If I could describe anxiety, I’d call it a hard ball lodged inside my chest, packed tight with emotions I can’t hold, can’t process. It squeezes me until it feels like I’m choking, like I’m drowning in a storm I cannot escape. I don’t want this feeling, so I push it outward. I throw it at someone I trust, someone I know will catch it, because I need it to land somewhere other than inside me. Anxiety is vulnerable. Anxiety is overwhelming. Anxiety is scary. Anger, though, feels different—it feels strong. It feels like control, something anxiety never offers.
Emotions aren’t always what they seem. That mom at the school pick-up line? She’s not rude—she’s anxious. That person snapping at the one they love? They don’t want to—they’re anxious. That frustration you feel in the grocery store? It’s anxiety in disguise, wearing the mask of irritation.
And I’m sorry. I always am—when anxiety wins and anger takes over. But over time, I’ve learned the most important kindness I can give is to myself. I speak with my therapist. I take a pause. I reel my anxiety back in before it becomes bigger than me. I take a deep breath so I can reclaim my strength.
And I remind myself: you are always stronger than the anxiety. You just have to remember it.
