It depends on the day, the situation.
Sometimes it feels like I'm tossing and turning across my creaky mattress. Under the covers, my legs radiate heat. Outside of the covers, they're too exposed. As much as I try to drown my thoughts with voices from "The Office," my mind wanders in the same circles. Relentlessly.
Sometimes it feels like an orb of heat rising from the depths of my gut and swelling into my chest, which prickles with hot needles. I wonder how splotchy it is, if anyone notices. The needles spread.
Sometimes it feels like tears stuck in my ducts. I want to cry because I know it's in me, but I can't form a complete feeling.
Sometimes it feels like I'm worried about everyone else except myself, but I can't let them go.
Sometimes it feels like I'm happy, like I'm content with where I am. But I just can't shake that feeling into my head, let it take over and settle.
Sometimes it feels like I just want to run, even though I hate running. I just want to expel some energy, let my legs pump it out until my body is exhausted, my mind too tired to travel.
Sometimes it feels like I need to make a checklist. I rip a piece of paper out of a notebook and sketch bullet points. One. Two. Three. But then I don't know what goes on that checklist. I can't remember.
Sometimes it feels like I'm wearing jeans on a hot day; they're suctioned to my legs. I'm at work, so I can't peel them off.
Sometimes it feels like I'm tromping through snow, the ice seeping into the toes of my boots and crawling up my legs and settling in my spine. All the muscles in my back go rigid. My jaw clinches.
Sometimes it feels like I've had too much coffee. My stomach is sour with acid, my head is swimming and my limbs can't be controlled. My leg, but only the right one, bounces up and down beneath my desk.
Sometimes it feels like a storm brewing on the horizon. I know it's coming, but I'm just waiting and waiting and waiting.
What does anxiety feel like for you?