Getting too close to the character.

There has to be something radically wrong with me. More mentally. Than physically. I have pangs of anxiety. Apprehension. Uneasiness. I seem to have lost confidence in myself. In my very being. At times, a mild sense of doom. Panic. Yet not panic. Because I pull myself together. To a degree. I calm myself. Bit by bit. Not completely. But in manageable ways. Maybe I'm overreacting. I keep telling myself. Get a hold of yourself, Jim. You can manage your life. Like you always have. But I can't seem to escape the apprehension. The feeling of insecurity. Of losing control. Maybe I am lapsing into a form of depression. I don't know. Other than it's a strange feeling.  This creeping apprehension. It's abnormal. It shouldn't be. I have doubts about myself. About my abilities to cope. Because of this feeling of anxiety. Worry. Worry over what? This creeping apprehension.  Here I am. At 3 something in the morning. Writing my thoughts. This seems to help. Seems to relieve the anxiety. Bit by bit. I am talking to myself. I am trying to become my own psychotherapist. I am trying to get to the bottom of my problem. And I assume it is a problem. Where do I go from here? I need reassurance. That I am okay. That this is merely another phase in life. Always. Always. Finding ways to cope. To survive. And get on with the rest of life. Maybe it's that I've had anxiety before. But this seems more acute. More scary. In the past, I have been able to cope. By convincing myself. That I can handle. Whatever comes. In innovative ways. Even by pretending. That I am mentally well. Mentally and physically and emotionally capable of anything. Maybe I fear. That I won't be able to do that. As I age. Maybe that's at the core of my anxiety. I am trying to be honest. Terribly honest. Brutally honest. With myself. In an effort to grab hold of this anxiety. While I still can. Before it overwhelms me. This must still be a mild form of anxiety. I am trying to grab hold. Now. By talking to myself. By mulling over things. Maybe I'm talking to my creator. Himself. I need help. And I'm trying to help myself. More than anything. I need to rely on myself. I have to take this whole thing a moment at a time. An hour at a time. A day at a time. And steer my way out of this labyrinth.  Rebuilding confidence. In myself. I am imagining a character in a short story. Or a novel. This is the protagonist. I wonder. If I am getting too close to this character. --Jim Broede