LOW LEVEL PANIC ALL DAY LONG

Low-Level Panic, All Day Long

It’s not dramatic enough to call it a panic attack.
If it were, at least I’d know what I was dealing with.

This is different.

It’s there when I wake up — not immediately, but close behind. A subtle tightening, like my body is already preparing for something before I’ve even opened my eyes properly. I lie still for a moment and check. Nothing urgent. Nothing catastrophic. Just that faint sense that something is slightly off.

By the time I’m up, it has settled into the background. It doesn’t stop me functioning. I can feed the cats. Make tea. Answer a message. Do whatever needs doing. From the outside, there’s no sign of anything unusual.

Inside, though, it’s like I’m operating one notch above where I should be.

My breathing is a little shallower. My chest a little tighter. My thoughts slightly quicker than necessary. Not racing — just alert. Watchful. As if something might go wrong and I need to be ready.

Ready for what, I couldn’t tell you.

I check finances more often than I need to. I scan my body for symptoms that weren’t there yesterday. I replay small interactions to make sure I didn’t say anything that will come back later in a way I don’t expect.

It’s exhausting, but it’s quiet exhaustion. No one sees it because nothing is visibly falling apart.

Sometimes I think this is just how my nervous system has decided to live. Permanently half-braced. Like a car engine idling slightly too high. It still runs. It still moves forward. It just burns more fuel doing it.

If something genuinely stressful happens, there’s barely any difference. That’s the strangest part. The dial doesn’t jump much higher because it was never fully down to begin with.

People talk about managing anxiety like it’s an event you prepare for. Breathe through it. Ground yourself. Ride it out. I can do that when it spikes.

This isn’t a spike.

This is the hum underneath everything.

There are moments when it fades — walking in the woods, sometimes. When I’m properly absorbed in something. When one of the cats settles against me and there’s nothing required of me except being still. But even then, I know it hasn’t gone far. It’s just quieter.

By the evening, I realise I’ve been slightly tense all day. Shoulders lifted. Jaw tight. Thoughts circling things that don’t need circling.

Nothing catastrophic happened.

Nothing dramatic occurred.

And yet I’ve spent the day as if it might.

Low-level panic doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t demand attention. It just sits there, all day long, asking me to stay alert — just in case.

And most of the time, I do.

 

Between Versions of Myself

I was a shy kid. Properly shy. The kind that finds it hard to connect, hard to speak, hard to feel at ease.

And yet I grew up in pubs.

My grandfather ran them, and I remember it as a happy time. Not chaotic. Not dark. Just full of life. Organists, vocalists, my sister performing sometimes. There was always something happening. A microphone on a stand. A drum kit left behind during the day. Sound checks. Applause.

I was enthralled.

I’d sneak onto the drum kit when no one was around. I’d stand near the mic and feel the pull of it. At seven years old, I think I already knew something in me wanted that. Wanted to sing. Wanted to be in that world.

The strange thing is I was still shy.

That’s the first split I can remember — wanting to be seen but not knowing how to be.

As I got older, into my teens, I began to understand more about myself. I realised I was gay. I didn’t act on it. I just knew. It sat there quietly, like a fact I carried around but didn’t examine too closely.

At fifteen I found amateur dramatics and musical theatre. That was it. I was home. On stage I wasn’t shy. On stage I knew exactly who I was supposed to be. I was also deep into Scouts at that point — Venture Scouts, camps, Jamborees, learning skills, being outdoors. I loved that life too.

But I couldn’t do both.

So I chose theatre.

That was another version shift. Leaving the Venture Scouts felt heavy at the time, but the stage had taken over my head. It wasn’t even a logical decision. It felt inevitable.

Training followed. Then professional work. National tours. West End. Cruises. Hotels. Team Leader. Ents Manager. Cruise Director.

From the outside it sounds like a steady climb. “He did well.” I suppose I did.

But underneath it, there was anxiety. Depression at times. Nothing came easily to me. I felt alone more often than people would assume. Professional theatre can be brutal, and if you’re covering up something personal — your sexuality, your mental state, your doubts — people either don’t see it or don’t want to.

Relationships broke parts of me I didn’t know were fragile. I ran on empty a lot, but I still showed up. That was the pattern.

Eventually I shifted direction. Some would call it career development. I think it was reinvention. Or maybe retreat.

Between West End shows I became despondent. I told myself I was a failure. That I didn’t deserve to be there. That I was somehow fundamentally flawed. I don’t think I understood then that I was unwell. I just thought I wasn’t strong enough.

So I did something that surprised people. I auditioned to be a Butlins Redcoat. Not because it was prestigious. The money was poor. The accommodation was poor. But the people were good. The job was fun. It felt like breathing properly for the first time in years.

It saved me.

It was a reset. A step sideways that let me regroup. I’ll always be grateful for it.

But the pattern didn’t stop.

Back to musical theatre. Then away again. Out of the country. Five-star hotels. Cabaret vocalist. Team leader. Ents Manager. Cruise Director. Change after change after change.

Each role had merit. Each one required professionalism. I gave everything I had. I tried to raise standards. I tried to build quality shows. Sometimes that wasn’t welcomed. Sometimes I was seen as too much. Too intense. Too driven.

It’s not nice being disliked.

Imagine saying at the time, “Don’t dislike me. I’m anxious.” That’s not how the industry works. Performers don’t carry anyone for long. I was carried at times, yes. But I carried others too.

Looking back, I see the pattern clearly. Reinvent. Push. Burn out. Shift. Try again.

My life has felt bitty. Not a clean edit. Just segments stitched together by necessity.

A year ago I moved away from my hometown after a bereavement. I thought a complete reset would fix everything. New place. New start. Different surroundings.

It didn’t.

Because the versions of myself keep coming with me.

The shy boy in the pub.
The confident performer on stage.
The anxious professional trying to prove himself.
The man reinventing again and again, hoping the next role will feel more solid.

Somewhere in there is the real version. I’m just not sure I’ve ever let him stay long enough to settle.

 

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