I've been on this planet now, well, a few decades, and I don't know why I have to learn, relearn, convince and re-convince myself that my mind is a liar. Oh, not necessarily a devious one, though it can feel that way on the other side of clarity, but one that has a compulsion to spin dark, lurid tales, filled with disaster and bloodshed (not really) and dire circumstances.
But these tales--complete with pictures and psychosomatic sensations--are so compelling, body and soul are pulled right up into the electric frenzy of mind. And look what your mind has now--a captive audience. There ain't nothing so addictive to someone who loves the sound of his own voice than a captive audience. So much so, he'll keep right on talking, spilling and spreading his snake oil indefinitely. Infinitely.
And I don't know that we're so much addicted to the stuff he's selling as we're in the trenches of habit and, at our core, too afraid to believe anything else (granted it's difficult to hear anything above the noise the fear-monger is making up there). So here's my advice--for myself, for anyone for whom it works--get your feet on the ground. Literally. Bare feet. Cold earth, warm earth, wet earth, dry earth--it doesn't matter. It's the antidote, the remedy, the silence and earth-deep hum to drown out even the silverest of tongues.