The Quiet Panic

A poem about a silent panic attack and the storm no one sees. Raw, fragile, and honest.

Last night, the world began to spin,
and I could hear the storm within.
My chest was tight, my pulse too loud,
the kind of fear that wears a shroud.

My hands were shaking, cold and pale,
my body weak, my mind so frail.
Each breath I took felt sharp and wrong,
each second stretched a lifetime long.

A boulder pressed against my throat,
no air to breathe, no words to float.
I bit my lip, I clenched my jaw,
as tears fell down that none would saw.

I pressed my palm against my lips,
to hide the tremor, mute the slips.
No one could know, no one could see,
the quiet war consuming me.

I whispered soft, I can calm myself,
as if the phrase could bring me help.
Over and over, through the storm,
until my body found its form.

Minutes crawled my heartbeat slowed,
the panic ebbed, though never showed.
And when the quiet filled the air,
I looked around "no one was there.

No one to ask, “Are you okay?”
No hand to keep the dark at bay.
Because if I tried to tell them true,
they’d laugh and say, “It’s drama, you.”

So I just sit and wear this face,
of calm and grace, of quiet place.
But deep inside, the screams still roam.
this body’s cage, this heart’s lone home.

Author's Note

Would love gentle, thoughtful feedback on the emotion and flow.