**The Day My Brain Decided to Host a Panic Party (And Forgot to Invite Me)**  

So yesterday morning, I’m standing in line at the damn Starbucks on 5th Avenue—the one that’s always packed with tourists and their obnoxiously large suitcases—and suddenly my hands start shaking like I’ve had six espressos in a row. Except I hadn’t even gotten my coffee yet. My phone was at 12% battery (because of course I forgot to charge it again), and this wave of *what the fuck is happening* hits me out of nowhere.  

Wait, no. Not *nowhere*. That’s a lie. Let me backtrack.  

It started last Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday? Shit, I don’t even remember. But I was at work, in my cubicle at that soul-sucking marketing firm where my boss, Linda (the one who smells like expired Chanel No. 5), kept micromanaging me about some PowerPoint deadline. And then—bam—my chest got tight, like someone was sitting on it. At first, I thought it was the shitty office air or maybe the leftover pad thai I’d eaten for lunch. But then my heart started racing like I was sprinting a marathon. While sitting. In an IKEA chair.  

Anyway, back to Starbucks. The cashier, this kid with a nose ring who looked about 17, asked for my order, and I swear to God, my brain short-circuited. I just stood there, staring at the menu like I’d never seen words before. "Uh… grande… no, venti—wait, fuck, what’s the difference again?" My voice sounded weird, too. Tinny. Like I was hearing myself through a bad phone connection.  

The guy behind me sighed loudly. Asshole.  

Here’s the thing: I *knew* it was anxiety. I’m not an idiot. I’ve read enough Twitter threads and WebMD articles to recognize the signs. But *knowing* doesn’t stop the part of your brain that’s convinced you’re dying. Like, logically? Yeah, I’m probably not having a heart attack at 28 while ordering a caramel macchiato. But my lizard brain was screaming, *EMERGENCY EVACUATE NOW*, and logic doesn’t stand a chance against that.  

Oh, and speaking of logic—my therapist, Dr. Ruiz (who charges $150 per session and always has this *I’m mildly disappointed in you* look), says I should "sit with the discomfort." Cool. Great advice. Except sitting with it feels like hosting a party where the only guest is a drunk clown screaming in my ear.  

I finally managed to croak out "venti iced coffee" and bolted to the bathroom. Locked myself in a stall and just… breathed. Or tried to. Meanwhile, some lady outside was having a full-blown phone argument about her divorce. Real subtle, Karen.  

This isn’t even my first rodeo. The first time it happened was in 2019, I think? I was 25, living in that shitty studio apartment in Queens with the radiator that either didn’t work or tried to murder you with heat. Woke up at 3 AM convinced I was suffocating. Called my ex, Mark (don’t ask), who told me to "calm down" (wow, revolutionary). Ended up Googling ERs at 4 AM while eating stale Cheez-Its.  

But yesterday was different because it happened in *public*. In *broad daylight*. And now I’m stuck in this loop of *what if it happens again but worse*? Like, what if I’m in a meeting? Or on the subway? Or—God forbid—on a date? (Not that I’ve been on one since… Jesus, has it been a year?)  

The weirdest part? Part of me is *angry* about it. Not scared—pissed. Like, *why now*? I was fine last month! I was binge-watching *The Bear* and eating Trader Joe’s frozen gnocchi like a normal person! I didn’t sign up for this!  

And then there’s the shame. Because *everyone* deals with stress, right? My cousin Luis works two jobs and has twin toddlers, and he’s not losing his shit in a Starbucks. My friend Priya survived layoffs at her company and just… handled it. Meanwhile, I’m over here unraveling because Linda sent me a passive-aggressive Slack message.  

Ugh. I don’t even know where I’m going with this. Maybe I just needed to vent. Or maybe I’m hoping someone will read this and go, "Oh my God, same." (If you do, hit me up. We can start a support group called *Anxious and Annoyed*.)  

Anyway. I got the coffee eventually. Drank it too fast. Burned my tongue. Classic.  

And now I’m sitting on my couch in my *I Survived Another Meeting That Should’ve Been an Email* T-shirt, wondering if I should cancel my plans tonight. Or if that’s letting the anxiety win. Or if "winning" is even the point.  

Fuck it. Maybe I’ll just order Thai food and watch *Brooklyn Nine-Nine* again.  

At least I know the jokes won’t give me a panic attack.