When I was in the pit of my most anxious, panic attack filled months, one overwhelming fear kept creeping in between the obsessive worries about the boiler exploding or switches setting on fire: that I had done something terrible at work and was about to get fired.
Each weekend, I’d just know that lurking in my inbox was a furious email from one of my editors, telling me I’d made a massive f***-up and would need to come in for a chat the next day.
We all turn into our parents at the age of 30, so that's great
There never was, to be clear.
On a logical level, I knew I was doing perfectly well and hadn’t committed any horrible crimes.
But anxiety told me that getting fired was just around the corner.
I’d log on to my emails with my eyes closed and my heart pounding, only to find messages from ASOS or stats reports.
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