Just call me Old Faithful

Some days I feel like a Yellowstone attraction, barely keeping the anxiety at bay as it churns just below my calm veneer, occasionally sending up spouts of steam. As quickly as I jam a finger in one leak, another gurgles through. I'm desperate to keep the vague worries from escalating into gut-gripping panic. Reading books, watching TV, surfing the web, small-talking with friends on the phone all help. So does the Zoloft.

And it's not like there's anything to be worried about. No dangling sword of Damocles or impending crisis. Just niggling little things I can't control at work, at church, at home that aren't worth getting worked up over. But they bubble and hiss just under the surface and if I'm not careful to breathe slowly, repeat reassuring mantras and otherwise keep myself distracted, there's a good chance one small geyser will escape and in that moment of weakness, a thousand others will come spurting through the too-thin peace of mind I work so hard to maintain.