I feel anxiety in my right foot

in the middle of conversations

at the dinner table

doing my laundry

solving an equation

my right foot starts shaking

suddenly, abruptly

and I have to excuse myself

I graze my fingers over my palms

I count the number of things I can see

I wanted to write a poem

on my anxiety

in the hopes it will make me feel better

less anxious, even

i am trying so hard to make this poetic

but we can’t romanticise this

my anxiety is not poetic

it is deadly, scary, dangerous

it is not sacred, not beautiful

so the next time

my right foot starts shaking

and I run away to graze

my fingers over my palms

I will just remind myself

these are the same hands

that bleed poetry

anxiety is not poetry

but my hands are

and I will keep telling this to myself

until either my anxiety goes away; or becomes poetry