Quotes About Anxiety

I am always on the edge of what I am doing. I do everything badly, sloppily, to get it over with so that I can get on to the next thing that I will do badly and sloppily so that I can then do nothing - which I do anxiously, distractedly, wondering all the time if there isn't something else I should be getting on with.

When I'm working I'm wishing I was doing nothing and when I'm doing nothing I'm wondering if I should be working. I hurry through what I've got to do and then, when I've got nothing to do, I keep glancing at the clock, wishing it was time to go out. Then, when I'm out, I'm wondering how long it will be before I'm back home.

Right when I was about to serve (which was traumatic enough, because I am even worse at volleyball than I am at Jenga),

Abraham Maslow called it the 'Jonah Complex', the fear of success. He said that we are generally afraid to become that which we can glimpse in our most perfect moments, under the most perfect conditions, under conditions of greatest courage; we enjoy and even thrill to the god-like possibilities we see in ourselves at such peak moments and yet, simultaneously, shiver with weakness, awe and fear before the same possibilities.

people can die of mere imagination

Es wird mir ganz angst um die Welt, wenn ich an die Ewigkeit denke.

Everything you've ever wanted is on the other side of fear.

Forget the past - the future will give you plenty to worry about.

What's the use of worrying It never was worthwhile.

You know those days when you get the mean reds? -The mean reds? You mean like the blues? -No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?

The group most likely to see themselves as lonely, stressed out, and concerned about the future is the unmarried, whether divorced or never headed to the altar.

In this world there is always danger for those who are afraid of it.

The most anxious man in a prison is the governor.

There is only one universal passion fear.

Fear is and has always been dead. It's how we picture it that makes fear come to life.

Wild were his dreams, and oft he rose in fright,Waked by his view of horrors in the night,—Horrors that would the sternest minds amaze,Horrors that demons might be proud to raise:And though he felt forsaken, grieved at heart,To think he lived from all mankind apart,Yet, if a man approached, in terrors he would start.

I had a son in 1976. When I went to Europe, I met an Italian and we became friends. We would talk about what we would tell our families to do if the balloon went up. The conversation -- strange and perhaps pathological as it was -- bound us together. It was not war, it was not peace, but it was a place in the mind where the preparation for war and the anxiety that it generated created strange forms, such as plans for the movement of children in order to avoid a nuclear holocaust.

I tried to scrounge up some awe but only got anxiety instead.

I survived. Had I hit my head on the wall when Rutger had thrown me, I could've died today. Right now I could be dead instead of sitting here in my office, twenty feet from my home. My mom could be in the morgue, identifying me on a slab. My heart pounded in my chest. Nausea crept up, squeezing my throat. I leaned forward and concentrated on breathing. Deep, calm breaths. I just had to let myself work through it. In and out. In and out. Slowly the anxiety receded. In and out.

At some point the fact that I was carrying my aunt the City Eater in my knife sheath would likely hit me and then I would have a nice nervous breakdown.

She wished she had a manual or something, some kind of instruction sheet that would clearly spell out what a responsible parent did in this sort of situation. Her imagination painted Georgie twenty years later, sitting in leg irons before some Broken psychiatrist. "Well, you see, it all started with bubbles

She's FREAKING out. I'm trying to calm her down. I may have to get wine. Or pot. Can I buy some pot? No. It's medicinal. No pot or I tell Mom.

A familiar pang pierced me, worry mixed with anxiety and a dash of mourning.

Some part of me is still convinced it's a fluke and eventually it will be ripped away from me. Deep down I expect it. Any hint of it and I roll down the cliff.