Am I still breathing?
Turn on the computer. Open the list of tasks to work on. Check email.
You feel the anxiety growing inside you. Anxiety is your friend—you know it too well. It's been your companion through every single part of you. But today it feels different. Heavier.
Why can't I work?
The cursor blinks at you mockingly. So many bugs to fix. You reach out to Claude. It's not AGI, but it might know something you don't. "Why can't I work? What's wrong with me?"
The sirens start blaring in your head. It's like that Green Day song, isn't it? The one about barely hanging on, about finding reasons to keep going when everything feels like it's falling apart.
You get up. It's too hot. You wish you had air conditioning and your laptop adds its own heat to the suffocating room.
You walk toward the balcony. It's cooler here, but not as cool as you'd like. The city stretches out below—thousands of stories happening simultaneously, and you can't even write one. The irony isn't lost on you.
Maybe it's clutter. Your computer isn't organized.
You back everything up. Folders within folders, screenshots from months ago, half-finished articles with names like "DRAFT_FINAL_REALLY_FINAL_v3.docx." Maybe your hard drive is your brain—fragmented, overstuffed, desperately needing defragmentation. Maybe you're reformatting the computer because you need the same clarity a fresh machine has.
The progress bar crawls forward. 47%... 48%... Each percentage point feels like a small victory against the chaos.
You return to the computer. Your code editor looks ugly. But there's nothing wrong with the code editor. It's the code. The R code that used to flow naturally now look like hieroglyphics. The Svelte files that once felt elegant now make you want to throw up. Delete everything. Start over.
But you can't start over. The deadline is real. The goat must be fed. There are pageviews and metrics to keep the bosses happy.
Why the fuck do you care? It's not like you are going to get promoted.
You check the clock. Half a day has passed. You've accomplished nothing except a growing sense of dread.
The Green Day song plays in your head again. About being a junkie, about betting everything on one last chance.
I'm like a junkie tyin' off for the last time
I'm like a loser that's bettin' on his last dime
Oh-oh-oh, I'm still alive
You set yourself a deadline. Not the editor's deadline—your own. Two hours. Ignore the anxiety. Ignore the panic. Ignore that the code doesn't feel right, that your prose sounds flat, that you're not the journalist you used to be. You have to finish something. Anything.
You turn on music. The same Green Day song, but louder now. The guitars cut through the mental static. Your fingers find the keyboard again.
You are still breathing. Sometimes that's enough to start with.