Carol Anne Johnson

Anxiety knocks without warning,
slipping into the room like a draft,
cold fingers tracing the edges of thought,
whispering what if, what if, what if.

It builds a storm from silence,
turns footsteps into echoes,
breath into burden,
and the heart into a hurried drum.

But still—
I learn to breathe around it,
to plant my feet on steady ground,
to remind myself the present
is not as heavy as my fear suggests.

I carry small anchors:
the warmth of tea cupped in my hands,
the sound of rain against the glass,
a reminder that storms pass,
even the ones inside my chest.

Some days it rides on my shoulder,
a restless bird that won’t be tamed.
Other days it grows quiet,
watching the world with me,
but not in control of my steps.

And so I keep walking,
with the weight and the light together—
learning that living with anxiety
is not about erasing the storm,
but finding my way home through the rain.

Carol Anne Johnson is a 45-year-old blind woman living in Ireland. She is a child abuse survivor, diagnosed with complex PTSD and dissociative identity disorder. She writes as a form of therapy, which helps her cope. She loves reading, volunteering, and writing.

This poem appeared in What We Hold On To: Poems of Coping, Connection, and Carrying On — Winter 2026, published by The Chaos Section Poetry Project. We’ll be featuring each poem from the collection individually in the weeks ahead. You can read the full collection or download a free PDF of the chapbook here.