Waves of Fear

The air inside the office was crisp, humming with the usual buzz of an advertising agency. Emma Lim sat at her desk, eyes flicking over the endless emails and design drafts demanding her attention. She could hear the muffled conversations of her colleagues, the steady hum of the AC, and the clicking of keyboards. For most people, this was a typical Monday morning—stressful, maybe, but manageable. For Emma, it was the first c***k in the dam. Her fingers hesitated over the keyboard. There was that feeling again—an odd tightness in her chest. She shifted in her chair, trying to brush it off. She had so much to do: a presentation to prepare, deadlines to meet, and a creative brief that seemed to have grown arms and legs overnight. There was no time for this. Yet the unease lingered. She glanced at the clock. 10:42 AM. Plenty of time to get her work done before the meeting at noon. But her mind wasn’t cooperating. Her thoughts kept drifting to the “what ifs.” What if she messed up the presentation? What if her ideas weren’t good enough? What if her boss, Mark, thought she wasn’t cut out for this job? Her breath hitched. Calm down, she told herself, gripping the edge of the desk. But the familiar dread was creeping in, its icy fingers tightening around her throat. It had been months since her last panic attack. She thought she had it under control—therapy sessions with Dr. Patel, breathing exercises, mindfulness apps. She had tools, strategies, ways to ground herself. But as the anxiety simmered under the surface, Emma felt like a kettle about to boil over. “Emma?” A voice cut through her spiraling thoughts. She looked up to see Sarah leaning against the partition of her cubicle. Dressed in her usual vibrant colors, Sarah was the embodiment of energy and confidence. Emma had always admired her friend’s ability to juggle a million things at once without losing her cool. “Hey, you okay? You look a little… pale,” Sarah asked, eyes narrowing with concern. Emma forced a smile. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a busy day.” Sarah’s eyes lingered on her for a second longer than usual. “Alright. Well, don’t forget we’ve got that pitch to Mark in an hour. Need any help?” Emma’s heart skipped. She’d completely forgotten about the pitch. “No, I’m good. I’ll be ready.” Sarah smiled, oblivious to the storm brewing behind Emma’s calm facade. “Great! See you in the conference room.” As Sarah walked away, Emma’s stomach twisted into knots. She leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes for a moment. Breathe, just breathe, she reminded herself. In through the nose, out through the mouth. But no matter how hard she tried, the rising panic refused to settle. Her palms were damp, her pulse quickening. She reached into her bag and pulled out a small card Dr. Patel had given her months ago. It was a grounding exercise. 5 things you can see, 4 things you can touch, 3 things you can hear, 2 things you can smell, 1 thing you can taste. Emma glanced around the office. She focused on the details—the sleek black monitor in front of her, the pastel sticky notes scattered across her desk, Sarah’s bright blue scarf hanging off the back of her chair. She touched the cool surface of her phone, the smooth texture of the mouse pad, the soft cotton of her blouse. For a moment, it helped. Her breathing steadied, and the tightness in her chest loosened. But it wasn’t enough to shake the feeling completely. It never was. Her phone buzzed. It was a text from Josh. How’s your day going? Emma stared at the message. She had been dating Josh for a few months now. He was sweet, patient, and always seemed to know when to check in. But she hadn’t told him about her panic disorder yet. She wasn’t ready. How could she explain that sometimes the smallest things—like a meeting at work—could send her spiraling into panic? Busy, but good she replied, though it felt like a lie. She didn’t want to worry him. Not now. As the clock neared noon, Emma gathered her materials for the pitch and headed to the conference room. Her legs felt shaky, her head light. The closer she got to the meeting, the louder her thoughts became. She could feel the panic rising again, a tidal wave building strength in her chest. When she entered the conference room, Mark and Sarah were already there, deep in discussion. Emma placed her notebook on the table and sat down, trying to steady her hands. Mark glanced up, giving her a curt nod. “Ready to go?” he asked, his voice sharp with expectation. Emma swallowed hard, her throat dry. “Y-yeah,” she stammered, mentally cursing herself for the quiver in her voice. The meeting began, and Sarah kicked off the presentation, smoothly laying out their ideas. But as it came to Emma’s part, her vision blurred, and her breath quickened. Her chest tightened like a vice. She couldn’t breathe. The walls of the room seemed to close in, and her thoughts became a cacophony of panic. Not here. Not now. But it was too late. The storm had hit.