I read somewhere that, as we go about our day-to-day lives, we all have an undercurrent of anxiety quietly bubbling under the surface. 

It’s not the hospital-waiting-room kind of anxiety.  Most of the time, we don’t even realise it’s there.   But it is. 

We hope it doesn’t/does rain.  We look both ways before crossing.  We better not use the word ‘dead’ around someone who’s just lost a beloved pet.  We wonder if we have seeds between our teeth after eating those new crispbreads-with-27-different-grains (answer: yes).  We use paper towels when we open the toilet door (okay, that’s just me).

They’re the little things that guide us through each day, keep us out of peril, out of minor disagreements, or prevent us from looking like multigrained fools.

Lately, though, my anxiety isn’t so much an undercurrent as it is white-water rapids.  This is partially a hormonal issue, I’ll admit.  Also, I have a first-time-in-a-while show coming up and it’s always in the back of my mind.

But these obvious things aside, for so many hours a week (I’ll let you guess which) I feel like I should be doing something else. 

It’s like I have an English exam tomorrow that I haven’t read the novel for (it was Dickens).  But instead of reading like the wind, I get sudden inspiration to write out the entire Pearl Jam catalogue in phonetics.

For significantly fewer hours, I feel like I’m in just the right place, doing just the right thing. 

Today, when I said “I have a cold and my laptop is broken beyond repair”, someone suggested that “maybe it’s a sign”.  I don’t believe in signs – I think you can attribute any meaning to anything – but I do believe in choices.

I could just choose not to be so anxious.  Or I could chose to eliminate the things that make me anxious…  Or I could “choose vodka and Chaka Khan”.

But if I didn’t have to wear hotpants in 12 days’ time, I’d totally choose chocolate.