Anxiety Attack

Imaginary blood drips down my arms as my imaginary nails break imaginary skin and squeeze my brain so hard I start to hear screams.  A whirlwind of colors flies through my mind.  My real hands are clenched over my real face, covered with real tears, and slowly, as they move down to embrace myself in a lonely hug, my real fingers grip whatever they can and press not quite enough to cause visible damage, and scratch almost hard enough to leave a scar.  But my brain is screaming with the blood and pain and scars that I make.

Anxiety attacks.  Those are the things my best friend got if she ate too much salt.  I remember she would get dizzy and faint and miss school a lot.  She said she saw everything at once and her heart beat so hard she thought she would die.  She said they were the same as panic attacks.
I don't get those.

I crawl from the dark corner, holding up my one arm with the other, dragging my body, so weak from the imaginary loss of blood.  The light burns my insides.  I want to crawl back in the corner.  I want to crawl into bed.  I want to hide forever.  I want to run away.

Somehow I'm still at my desk, in my cubicle, in the office building where I work.  I wonder, if I never left, where did I go?  The papers piled up in front of me make a mountain-like obstruction.  I feel the heavy breaths coming from my mouth, wheezing out of my sore throat.  My brain starts spinning again, pulling me back to that imaginary corner under imaginary stairs.  I see flurries: of snow, of birds, of colored specks and dots.  Everything is flying through my brain.  I look down again.  My desk is empty.  There's nothing on it.

My fingernails are covered with blood.  I smear it on the pure white desk.  It doesn't change.
I dim the lights and crawl in my corner.
I'm under the covers in my bed.
My work is gone.
The screaming stopped.