Right now, someone you know could be having an anxiety attack. Myself included. It's a feeling I know all too well, despite how much I wish I didn't. For me, however, the occasional anxiety attack is only one part of the anxiety disorder I've dealt with since I was about 15 years old.

There's the panic, the fear, the paranoia, the mood swings, the loss of appetite, the chest pain, the racing heart, the shaking hands, the trembling voice, the disassociation — where it feels like my mind and my body are two separate things and paying attention is a chore. And my anxiety disorder doesn't discriminate; it doesn't matter if I'm at work, in class, going for a walk, listening to music, or simply just existing. Any or all of these things could descend on me like wolves at any given moment.

My mind becomes a prison without bars, my skin feels eight sizes too small, my heart is pounding in my chest so hard that it feels like my rib cage is rattling, and my blood feels too heavy, too thick in my veins. In under a minute, I've found 18 different reasons why all the people in the room hate me, and now I can't breathe. The paranoia and genuine fear can be paralyzing. "God, I hate the sound of my own voice. Don't raise your hand. What if you're wrong? Don't raise your hand. Everyone will hate you for being 'too smart.' Don't raise your hand. Don't raise your hand. Don't raise your hand."

But I'll still smile at you. And maybe that's where the common misconceptions come in — I get them all the time.

Because I am not manic or frenzied every second of the day, surely, I'm "just nervous." I often explain to people who don't understand that the nerves they feel before a big presentation or a first date is how I feel all of the time. Or because I work in retail, and have to talk to people all day long, it "really can't be that serious." But it is that serious. It's like a light switch that only turns on, never off. The nearly constant, choppy current of nausea makes eating a chore some days, and things as simple as a phone call feel about as uncomfortable as a hot poker in my gut.

I wish that I could just "calm down," as some have put it. Everyday, I wish that I could just calm down, but my mind doesn't always know how to. Another way I explain it to other people is that my fight-or-flight trigger is a bit too sensitive — and everything looks like danger, even if I "logically" know that it isn't. My anxiety doesn't give logic enough time to interfere, and then it's too late.

Every day is a battle between myself and my mind: which one of us is going to win out today? Will I sit in silence in class, scribbling questions in the margin of my notes that I'm too terrified to ask? Will I convince myself that the people whispering and laughing around me are secretly in on some joke about me that I won't have the benefit of pretending I find funny? Will I ignore people I genuinely care about because I'm too afraid of the possibility of rejection? Will tears burn my eyes at the thought of arriving late to class, to work, to anything? Will my sweating, trembling hands betray my best kept secret, or will it be my shaking voice? Will I lash out at the smallest of things, because I'm wound a little bit too tightly? Will I make it through today without having to remind myself to just breathe?

But just because every day is a battle, doesn't mean that I don't sometimes win. For every moment of weakness I've had because of my anxiety, I've taught myself how to turn that weakness into strength. For every fear I've conquered and word I've spoken while being scared half to death, I've congratulated myself on all of these little victories. For every day that I haven't come out on top, I've tried to be kinder to myself. For every day that fear froze me dead in my tracks, I've tried to remember to forgive myself, and commend my own efforts. Because I'm the only me I'm ever going to get. Every day won't be a victory but, everyday, I'm going to try.

My anxiety is a part of me, but it will never be all of me.