Everybody panic

I am as yet unsure on the statistics of panic attacks, and of how many people shall be forced, wailing, to endure them, but I assume it is not as low as I would think.

What I was entirely unaware of was the sheer variety of panic attacks, the multitude of forms that they may take.  It's a bit like wine; one man's Merlot is another man's urine, and one man's ejaculation is another man's Cabernet Sauvignon.  Would that any of them were as tasty as Merlot.

From a short perusal of the NHS website, one would assume that they consist entirely of clutching one's arm, out of breath, and probably lunging over the desk of A&E to check yourself in a little swifter than the staff can manage.  Which, in reality, is probably not very swift at all.  Half your face could've fallen off and they'd still tell you to take a seat and behave.  Now I'm not saying I've never done this, because I have, and there was an ungodly amount of screaming involved, but that was more due to a pathetically palpitating heart than an actual panic attack.  No.  Mine tend to make themselves known at the most inopportune moments, often on trains, and they attack in an altogether different manner of fury.

I sit, still, silent, with an incomprehensible and overwhelming sense of doom oozing out of every pore.  Death is mere moments away.  The Reaper is tapping at my shoulder.  I am seconds away from curling up on the floor and weeping, which is not an altogether infrequent thing for me, but I try to avoid it in public simply because I value my reputation as an Englishman.  So instead I sit still, life flashing before my eyes and regrets boiling out of my ears, occasionally nibbling at my nails when I work up enough courage to move.  Then I convince myself I must've accidentally eaten some drugs and am currently overdosing on an unrecognised narcotic that they won't be able to diagnose at the hospital so I will recede into cramps and general bleeding until I die, twitching, on the floor of Accident and Emergency because I've fallen off one of the seats again.

And then I'll likely be told to sit back down and stop being a ridiculous man.  And I won't be able to stop being ridiculous, because I'll be dead.

That's the sort of panic attack I get.  And I do wonder how many types there are, and I wonder if the next time I see someone staring off into the distance on a train, they are contemplating their entire livelihood and its moment of ending.  If you see me, that's what I'll be doing.

Apologies to the staff of the Royal Free who had to put up with my shenanigans each week.