Anxiety, unfortunately, is not a sexy condition to have. It's not romantic; it's not Heathcliff-on-the-moors-moody. It's not windswept and dark, and there is no mournful cello concerto written to accompany it.
No, it's ugly and loud, a chord broken not by the fading of the sound, but by the snapping of the strings. It is incapable of reason or being placated or soothed. It can't be put to bed because it doesn't sleep. It's more like a maniacal knitter who keeps dropping stitches and ripping them out, refusing to put the project down, even for a day, an hour, a minute.
I don't have an answer for anxiety. I wish I had. But I think some of us are just, sadly, unfairly, programmed this way. Would it be different if that anxiety had a legitimate place to land? I have to think that if I, like my ancestors, still hunted for my survival, channeling this heightened energetic nonsense into listening for the caribou, the moose, the deer, channeling that energy into something designed to be highly-strung, like a bow and arrow, I'd probably re-christen myself Artemis. Anxiety as heightened sense, anxiety as usable skill.
Anxiety as power.
Right now it hunts creatures--some imaginary, some real--without weapons, without shields, without the cover of landscape.