It starts small—

like static under skin.

Ceiling hums.

Clock ticks wrong.

Air too thick.

Lights too strong.

Heartbeat climbing stairs alone,

lungs forget their telephone.

Call for calm—no one replies,

thoughts sprint circles, multiply.

My hands shake like they’re signing something—

a contract I don’t remember writing.

Breathe—

don’t.

Think—

won’t.

I’m falling inside my own head,

body here, everything else fled.

If you know this sound, you know—

this is what it’s like to go.

Walls lean close.

Mouth tastes tin.

Every breath a siren within.

Eyes blur edges, floor goes soft,

name and time both switch off.

Someone talks; I nod; I drown.

Noise above, heartbeat down.

Try to ground—count to ten—

make it to five, start again.

Too loud—

too quiet—

can’t tell which is riot.

Body’s riot.

Mind’s a wire, frayed and fired.

Please stop.

Please not.

Please—

Breathe.

Just breathe.

Air comes back like a thief.

Heart slows down,

world retunes.

But I still hum the panic’s tune.

If you’ve been here, then you know—

you survived the undertow.

It starts small…

then it goes.