Anxiety is a chewed-up, spat-out wad of gum that sticks to the bottom of your shoe
sticky-stubborn against your attempts to scrape it off with a butter knife.
Annoying.
Messes with the way you walk, glues you to the sidewalk,
an ever-present lump that presses and presses until you trip on your own feet and fall, face-first on the same sidewalk you got stuck to earlier.
There. There.
It’s always there,
and even when you bang your head against the wall, desperate to get rid of the never-leaving, never-breathing thing that is dragging you down, down
down -
it’s there.
And it will keep making you trip and slip until you kick off your shoes, give up,
and resolve to only wear socks.