I am much more than my anxiety.

Anxiety is loud, and loudness gets mistaken for size. It is the tenant on the second floor with the drum kit — impossible to ignore, and still occupying one flat in a building with many.

The rest of you continues regardless, mostly unrecorded. You were funny about something on Thursday. You remembered a friend's bad week and asked about it. You did competent work while feeling terrible, which is harder than doing competent work while feeling fine.

None of that is cancelled by the noise upstairs.