What It's Like To Deal With An Anxiety Attack At Work

It took me an hour to work up the nerve to ask if I could go home.

By Unwritten — Written on Apr 20, 2023

Photo: Moyo Studio / Getty Images via Canva

By Rachael Hofford

I have struggled with an anxiety disorder and OCD for seven years. Anxiety, really, my whole life. I can’t remember a time when my stomach didn’t churn and my hands didn’t sweat, sometimes for no apparent reason.

Having a mental illness in the workplace, especially when it becomes difficult to suppress or hide, makes me feel like a disappointment. It makes me feel unprofessional like I’m bringing my personal issues to a place where they don’t belong.

As if I could just take them off like a backpack when I start my shift, picking them back up again when I clock out. But it’s not like that.

I carry anxiety with me always.

It’s there, in the pit of my stomach, in the way my hands can’t stay still, the way my eyes glass over when I start to panic. Having a mental illness in the workplace makes me feel like I don’t belong.

I’ve worked in retail for a year now. Only a few of my coworkers, those whom I’m closer to, are aware of my anxiety disorder. For the past year, on the days when I felt like the world was ending, I would call in sick, citing bodily illness. In reality, I was under my covers, unable to set foot outside the door, in fear of something I couldn’t even name.

It’s good to push yourself. Healthy, even. There were plenty of days when I pushed myself to get out of bed, slap on some makeup, and just shove it all down. And usually, I am fine, I get to work, I distract myself, and the anxiety of the morning feels silly and unnecessary.

Recently, it was one of those days. I could feel panic filling me up. I pushed it down and left for work.

The heat was oppressive, my breath was shallow. I felt frustrated with myself. Why couldn’t I just walk to work? Why couldn’t I do such an easy, everyday thing?

All I was doing was folding shirts, yet my heart was pounding. I saw one of the managers that I felt comfortable with and asked if we could talk in private.

As soon as we sat down in the back office, I started sobbing. I hated myself. I was so embarrassed. I wasn’t being paid to cry.

She was very kind. She hugged me and told me it was fine, that I could take as much time as I needed to calm down. I went to the staff room and shredded Kleenex.

A pile of white shreds grew in front of me, a tiny snowy mountain. I wondered what I looked like from the outside, what someone would see if they walked in right now.

I immediately scooped the Kleenex from the table and threw it out. I focused on my breathing. I did all the tips and tricks that you see on the internet, but today, none of them were working. I knew I needed to go home but I was afraid to ask, afraid to disappoint again.

It took me an hour to work up the nerve to ask if I could go home. I tried to be invisible as I walked out, I held my sweater close to me, hoping no one would notice my red-rimmed eyes and shaking hands.

Having an anxiety attack in the workplace made me feel small. It made me feel like I was a silly child in a grown-up world where I was in over my head.

When I went back to work the next day, I was so embarrassed. But my coworkers surprised me: they hugged me and let me know they were there if I needed help. They offered to come over if I needed company or someone to help cook dinner. I was overwhelmed by their kindness.

I began to realize that I’d underestimated people. I thought that everyone would think I was weird or being dramatic, but they actually understood, or at least wanted to try.