The Worry About the Worry

There’s this really weird thing that happens after you’ve dealt with anxiety or panic.

You can actually be doing okay.

You can feel better. More like yourself. Life can move on. And then one day you feel something.

Your heart beats a little faster. Your chest feels a little tight. You wake up after a crappy night of sleep and feel slightly off.

And your brain goes:

Wait.

Is this it?

Is it coming back?

And suddenly you’re not even anxious about whatever is happening in front of you.

You’re anxious about becoming anxious.

The worry about the worry.

The panic about the possibility of panic. And lately, with a newborn in our house again, I’ve felt some of that creeping back in.

Not necessarily the full panic.

More like… the memory of it.

And sometimes I’m realizing the memory can be pretty damn powerful.

When Rikki was born, and I became a dad for the first time, I had panic attacks.

I don’t think I fully understood what was happening to me at the time.

Here I was experiencing one of the greatest moments of my life. I had this beautiful little girl. I was a dad. Something I had wanted so badly was finally here.

I was supposed to be happy.

And I WAS happy.

But I was also completely overwhelmed.

The responsibility.

The lack of sleep.

The holy-crap-we-are-actually-responsible-for-this-human feeling.

The fact that you leave the hospital and they’re just like, Okay, good luck!

And my body did not handle all of that quietly.

My heart would race. My chest would tighten. My thoughts would take off.

And then I’d get scared about what was happening inside of me, which of course made everything worse.

There was also this confusing guilt attached to it.

Why am I feeling like this?

I have this beautiful baby.

I’m supposed to be enjoying this.

It took me time to understand something I now talk about with people all the time:

Two things can be true.

You can love your child more than anything in the world AND feel completely overwhelmed by becoming a parent.

You can be grateful AND anxious.

You can look at this tiny human and think, I would do anything for you, while also thinking, What the hell happened to my life?

That doesn’t make you a bad parent; it makes you a person going through a massive life change.

Eventually, things got better.

We figured some stuff out.

Rikki grew.

I grew. Went to therapy and got on some medication to help.

The panic settled.

Life moved forward.

And then we had Max.

When Max was born, sleep became a whole thing for me.

Like… a whole thing.

The sleep deprivation hit me HARD.

Because Max did not sleep, or, I should say, Max did not sleep unless he was sleeping on us.

If we put him down, he would wake up every 45 minutes to maybe an hour and a half.

Over. And over. And over again.

But if he slept on one of us?

Two hours.

Three hours.

Sometimes FOUR glorious hours.

Which sounds amazing until you remember one small detail:

If the baby is sleeping on you, YOU are not sleeping.

So we had this completely ridiculous choice every night.

Put him down and maybe get 45 minutes of sleep before starting the whole process again…

OR…

One of us stays awake holding him so he can actually sleep, the other person gets a chunk of sleep, and then eventually we switch.

It became this sacrifice we had to make.

Someone had to give up sleep so Max could sleep, so the other person could sleep, so all of us didn’t completely lose our minds.

There were nights where I would just sit there holding him.

Exhausted.

Watching the clock.

Knowing that he was finally sleeping peacefully, but also knowing that meant I couldn’t.

And that started messing with me.

Because sleep stopped feeling like something that just happened at the end of the day.

It became a strategy.

A negotiation.

A shift schedule.

Who’s sleeping?

Who’s holding him?

How long has he been out?

Should I try putting him down?

Is it worth the risk?

If I move him, is he going to wake up and we’re starting all over again?

And somewhere in there, I started developing what I can only describe as the nighttime scaries.

As soon as the day started winding down, I could feel it.

That pit in my stomach.

The sun would start going down, and instead of my body thinking, Okay, we’re wrapping up the day, it felt like:

Oh crap. Here we go.

Because I knew what was waiting for us.

Another night of broken sleep.

Another night of trying to figure out who was going to sacrifice sleep so somebody else could get some.

And nothing bad had even happened yet.

It could be 6:00 p.m., and my brain was already at 2:00 a.m.

What if he doesn’t sleep?

What if I don’t sleep?

What if I start panicking again?

How the hell am I going to function tomorrow?

I was getting anxious about being anxious, and sometimes that felt worse than the actual anxiety.

Because nighttime itself started becoming scary.

I remember being SO tired and wanting nothing more than to sleep, but then putting so much pressure on myself to actually sleep during whatever window I got that… shocker… I couldn’t sleep.

Which made it even worse.

Because when your partner is sacrificing their sleep so YOU can get two or three hours, you feel like you HAVE to sleep.

This is my window.

I need to sleep NOW.

Nothing says relaxation like knowing the clock is ticking on your one opportunity to sleep.

Then came the clock watching.

Oh, the clock watching.

Okay, if I fall asleep right now, I can still get four hours.

Check again.

Okay… three and a half.

Again.

Cool. Three.

Because nothing helps you fall asleep quite like aggressively calculating how little sleep you’re going to get.

And underneath all of it was something bigger.

I’d been here before.

I knew what panic felt like because of what happened after Rikki was born.

So I wasn’t only scared of being tired.

I was scared of going back there.

I was scared that not sleeping would lead to anxiety.

The anxiety would lead to panic.

The panic would lead to me feeling like that version of myself again.

So one crappy night wasn’t just one crappy night.

My brain could turn it into:

Oh no.

Is this starting again?

The night hadn’t even happened yet, and I was already living through the worst version of it in my head.

Eventually, it got better.

Max grew.

He learned how to sleep without using one of us as his personal mattress.

We started sleeping more.

I started feeling more like myself.

The nighttime scaries slowly stopped being so scary.

Life moved on.

And I thought that chapter was mostly behind me.

Then we had another baby.

Now here we are with our third beautiful little human.

And man, I love this stage.

The newborn smell.

The little noises.

The snuggles.

Watching my older kids fall completely in love with their baby sister.

It’s amazing.

It’s also exhausting.

Because the baby is babying.

She doesn’t care that Dad has work tomorrow.

She doesn’t care that I would really appreciate a solid chunk of uninterrupted sleep.

She’s just doing her thing.

And there have been a few nights recently when she hasn’t slept well.

I’m holding her in the middle of the night.

I’m exhausted.

And suddenly I feel it.

Just a little ripple.

My heart beats a little faster; maybe my chest feels slightly different.

And my brain immediately notices.

Wait.

I know this feeling.

Then comes the next thought:

What if this is coming back?

And THAT is the part I’ve been wrestling with.

Because sometimes I’m not actually panicking.

I’m worried that I might panic.

I’m not back where I was after Rikki or Max.

I’m scared that I’m headed there.

And the second I start wondering about it, I start checking.

How does my chest feel?

Is my heart beating fast?

Why can’t I relax?

Am I going to be able to sleep?

Why am I thinking about this?

Oh crap, the fact that I’m thinking about this probably means something.

And now I’m not just sitting there holding my daughter.

I’m monitoring myself sitting there holding my daughter.

That’s exhausting.

This is how I think about it.

My brain remembers.

It remembers Rikki.

It remembers Max.

It remembers panic.

It remembers those nights where I felt completely overwhelmed.

So now certain things show up and my internal smoke detector goes:

HEY DUDE. WE KNOW THIS.

Baby crying at 2 a.m.?

BEEP.

Bad night of sleep?

BEEP.

Heart beating a little faster?

BEEP.

Sun going down and you’re already exhausted?

BEEP BEEP BEEP.

The smoke detector is trying to help.

That’s important.

Anxiety isn’t showing up because my brain hates me.

It’s trying to protect me.

It’s basically saying:

Last time we felt this way, things got really hard. I don’t want that to happen again.

Thanks, brain.

Appreciate you.

But sometimes there’s a huge difference between a house fire and slightly burnt toast.

And my nervous system isn’t always great at knowing the difference.

My instinct when I feel that little ripple is still:

Calm down.

You’re fine.

Don’t panic.

Which is hilarious because I’m a therapist and I know how incredibly unhelpful it is to tell an anxious person to “just calm down.”

Apparently that rule also applies when the anxious person is me.

Because now I’m anxious AND frustrated that I’m anxious.

I’m scared of becoming more anxious, and I’m putting all this pressure on myself to make the feeling disappear.

But I’m trying to remind myself of something:

The goal doesn’t always have to be making the feeling go away.

Maybe I can just feel it.

Maybe my heart can beat faster for a minute.

Maybe I can have a crappy night.

Maybe I can feel anxious.

Maybe I can even feel a little panic.

And still be okay.

That’s different than trying to guarantee that I’ll never feel it again.

This is the part I keep coming back to.

My brain says:

We’ve been here before.

And it’s right.

We have.

But that doesn’t mean I’m back there.

I’m not the brand-new dad I was when Rikki was born, trying to understand why the hell I was having panic attacks during what was supposed to be one of the happiest times of my life.

I’m not the same dad I was when Max was a newborn, staring at the clock and terrified of another sleepless night.

I’m older.

Hopefully a little wiser.

Definitely more tired.

But different.

I understand my anxiety better.

I know my triggers.

I have tools.

I have language for what’s happening.

I know how to ask for help.

I know that one horrible night doesn’t automatically mean a horrible week.

One anxious moment doesn’t mean I’m spiraling.

One wave doesn’t mean I’m drowning.

And maybe most importantly:

I’ve survived this before.

Twice.

Anxiety loves taking our history and using it as evidence against us.

Remember what happened last time?

But I’m trying to flip that.

Yeah.

I DO remember what happened last time.

And I made it through.

Maybe my history isn’t only evidence that panic can happen.

Maybe it’s also evidence that I can handle really freaking hard things.

One of the things that helps me when my brain starts running is making the world smaller.

Because anxiety LOVES the whole pie.

It’s never just:

I’m tired tonight.

It’s:

I’m tired tonight, so what if I don’t sleep, and then I’m exhausted tomorrow, and then tomorrow night is bad too, and what if this lasts weeks, and what if I’m back where I was with Max, and…

Dude.

It’s 2:17 a.m.

My mother used to say if you try to eat the whole pie at once, you’re probably going to choke.

So I’m trying to stop eating the whole pie.

I don’t need to solve tomorrow at 2:17 a.m.

I need to solve 2:17 a.m.

What does the baby need?

What do I need?

What’s the next thing?

Or, as the famous philosopher Anna from Frozen 2 says:

Do the next right thing.

Yes.

Therapist.

Author.

Dad of three.

Taking mental health advice from Disney.

And you know what? It works.

Sometimes the next right thing is feeding the baby.

Sometimes it’s walking around the room with her.

Sometimes it’s waking up my wife and saying, I need you.

Sometimes it’s putting the baby down safely and taking a minute.

Sometimes it’s reminding myself:

This moment sucks.

But it’s a moment.

I don’t need to figure out tomorrow night.

I’ll deal with tomorrow night tomorrow night.

This is probably the hardest part for me.

Because I would LOVE to end this by saying:

And I’ve realized there’s nothing to worry about and I’m totally fine now!

Cute.

That’s not how this works.

I’ll be honest, a part of me is still scared.

There are nights where I feel something in my chest and think:

Please don’t let this become that again.

I don’t want to have panic attacks again.

I don’t want the nighttime scaries again.

I don’t want to feel trapped inside my own head at 2 a.m.

Of course I don’t.

But I’m also realizing that trying to guarantee myself that I’ll never feel those things again might actually be keeping me afraid of them.

Because I can’t make that promise.

Maybe the anxiety comes back.

Maybe I have a really bad night.

Maybe my heart races.

Maybe I panic.

Maybe I feel overwhelmed.

Okay.

Then I’ll deal with that moment when I’m actually in it.

I don’t need to experience it twice.

Once in my imagination.

And then again if it actually happens.

Right now, I’m here.

I’m holding my daughter.

I’m exhausted.

I’m grateful.

I’m overwhelmed.

I’m watching my older kids fall in love with their baby sister.

I’m watching my wife be an absolute rockstar.

I’m trying to be a husband and dad and therapist and author and human while running on newborn sleep.

And sometimes my nervous system gets a little loud.

Maybe that’s okay.

Maybe healing isn’t getting to a place where my body forgets what happened.

Maybe it doesn’t need to forget.

Rikki’s birth is part of my story.

Those nights with Max are part of my story.

The panic is part of my story.

But it doesn’t get to automatically write this chapter.

My body might remember the panic.

But I also get to remind it that we made it through.

Maybe that’s what I’m learning this time around.

The goal isn’t to never worry again.

It’s not to never feel anxiety again.

It’s not even to guarantee that I’ll never panic again.

It’s learning that when that little voice shows up and says:

Oh no. What if it’s coming back?

I can answer:

Maybe.

But I’ve been here before.

And I know what to do next.