I Don’t Know Why I’m Panicking, But I Am.

It starts in my throat. Like something’s been ripped out. Like I swallowed grief and it lodged itself there, pulsing. The world goes quiet, but my body gets loud. My bones ache. My chest tightens. My jaw locks. And I panic.

I don’t always know why. Sometimes it’s a comment that feels like an attack on my character. Sometimes it’s a look. A tone. A pause. Sometimes it’s nothing I can name. Just a loop. A spiral. A storm.

I wish I could explain it. I wish I could say, “Here’s what triggered me,” but most of the time, I don’t know. It’s like my nervous system has a memory I don’t have access to. Like my body is reacting to something my mind forgot.

And then I’m gone. Not physically. But emotionally. Mentally. Spiritually.

I either shut down completely or explode. There’s no middle ground. I get petty. I get loud. I say things I don’t mean. Or I say things I do mean, but in a way that hurts.

And then I forget. Stress amnesia. I forget the conversation. The context. The tone. I just remember the ache.

I’ve tried grounding. Breathing. Pausing. But anxiety doesn’t care about rituals. It loops. It latches. It amplifies.

So I ride it out. Sometimes for minutes. Sometimes for days.

And when someone hugs me and says, “You’re okay,” I believe them. Even if just for a moment. Even if I forget again tomorrow.

This is what panic looks like for me. Not a dramatic scene. Just a quiet unraveling. A body screaming in a language I’m still learning to translate.