Quotes About Anxiety

But just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that there isn't an invisible demon about to eat your face.

People who are scared need to laugh, and the scarier things are, the more they need it.

She . . . is worried that her daughter is a very young person moving in a world that rewards inexperience with pain.

Don't borrow trouble.

Gotta tell you, Murph," I sighed back. "I got a bad feeling about this." "Speak for yourself," Murphy said. "I just gave my last grenade to a Valkyrie and ordered her to blow up a kraken. I'm having a ball.

Bob stared at me for a second and said, 'I have nightmares about Hell, where all I do is add up numbers and try to have conversations with people like you.

just because you're paranoid doesn't mean that there isn't an invisible demon about to eat your face.

Okay," I said, fear making my voice weak. This is bad. This is very, very bad." Wish

I don't want to get killed. Or arrested. I'm really bad at being arrested. Or killed.

I get more threats before nine a.m. than most people get all day

The hour when you sit up in bed, sweating from nightmares. The hour when you awaken for no reason but to fear the future. The hour when you stare at the clock, willing yourself to sleep, knowing it isn't going to happen, and weariness and despair beat upon the doors to the vaults of your mind with leaden clubs.

Fear is really quite tedious. She wanted to be rid of it as soon as possible.

Dead silence. "Drink some coffee," I told him. He did. "Scared?" "Yeah." "Good," I said. "That's smart." "Well, then," he murmured. "I m-must be the smartest guy in the whole world.

All hospital emergency rooms have the same feel to them. They're all decorated in the same dull, muted tones and softened edges, which are meant to be comforting and aren't. They all have the same smell too: one part tangy antiseptics, one part cool dispassion, one part anxiety, and one part naked fear. They

I lean against the rail and think there much be such a thing as beautiful anxiety.

How to make her run? No problem there. For a fearful shadow lies constantly over the residents of Uneasy Street. It casts itself through the ostensibly friendly handshake, or the gorgeously wrapped package. It beams out from the baby's carriage, the barber's chair, the beauty parlor. Every neighbor is suspect, every outsider, every period; even one's own husband or wife of sweetheart. There is no ease on Uneasy Street. The longer one's tenancy, the more untenable it becomes.

I often try to reassure myself by saying, "Well, at least it can't get any worse." But the truth is, it always can. And that's what really terrifies me.

I know what the fear is. The fear is not for what is lost. What is lost is already in the wall. What is lost is already behind the locked doors. The fear is for what is still to be lost.

The fear is for what is still to be lost.

Alcohol has its own well-know defects as a medication for depression but no one has ever suggested - ask any doctor - that it is not the most effective anti-anxiety agent yet known.

Once she was born, I was never not afraid.

It is the season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.

Superstition prevails, fear that the fragile unfinished something will shatter, vanish, revert to the nothing from which it was made.

When we think about adopting a child, or for that matter about having a child at all, we stress the blessing aspect. We omit the instant of sudden chill, the what-if, the free fall into certain failure. What if I fail to take care of this baby? What if this baby fails to thrive, what if this baby fails to love me? And worse yet, worse by far, so much worse as to be unthinkable, except I did think it, everyone who has ever waited to bring a baby home thinks it: what if I fail to love this baby?