Anxious

My skin is flushed and feels like I've been in the sun for too long. I'm shedding layers and taking my temperature and cursing the damn thermometer when it reads normal. My mind crackles with electricity and long before I manage to complete a thought it jumps to the next, and the next, and the next until I end up exhausted and confused, with no idea where I started. My heartbeat sounds like the ominous tones in a scary movie when some misguided soul is about to go down to the basement or enter the water or open the door: deep and jagged and unpredictable. My breath is shallow and fast; it feels like I've never actually breathed a full breath before, just tiny, unsatisfying mini-breaths strung together in an unhappy row. 

I feel not quite right.  

The tears and my anger are quick to appear. I'm apologizing all over the place because snippy-snappy seems to be my new default setting. I don't feel like myself. I don't feel like a good wife or good mom or good friend.  

I feel anxious. And I'm not sure how to fix it.