Anxiety is a bird that is constantly beating its wings against the inside of your chest, without the chance to spread them widely, feel actual wind, experience the drop of falling, or the lift of flight. It is a bird from all corners and to all corners. People describe it with words like indigo, and crimson, but it feels monotone. Could soar, but instead it perches, ever-ready, but unmoving from a branch. Assumes it’d fail, tries not, and stays, barely, alive.