The Thing with No Off Switch

My brain has no off switch. I've looked. It runs at 3 a.m. the way some people run marathons— without purpose, without destination, just the relentless forward motion of a mind that has confused movement with progress. Anxiety is not worry. Worry has a subject. Worry is: did I lock the door? Anxiety is: what if everything? All at once? Forever? It lives in the chest. Not the heart— slightly above, slightly to the left, in the place where your breath would go if your breath would cooperate. People say: just relax. This is like saying to a person on fire: have you considered being less flammable? I have tried the breathing. I have tried the apps. I have tried the supplements with names I can't pronounce and promises that sound like poetry if poetry were sold at a pharmacy. Some days it's manageable. A low hum. A radio station playing in another room that you can almost ignore. Other days it's the only station. Loud. Every channel. And the remote is missing. But here's what I've learned: the wave always passes. Always. Even the ones that feel like drowning. You float. You breathe. You wait. And the water remembers how to be still. You are not your anxiety. You are the person still here after it passes. That person is braver than they know.