A Polite Version of Panic

I nod. I smile. I choose the safe words. I keep my voice even, like evenness can convince the moment to be kind.

Inside, I’m scrambling. Not for “better vocabulary,” but for the exact feeling—before it turns into a different story.

The panic is polite: it asks permission before it interrupts. It waits until I’m alone to tell me what I should’ve said.

I’ve learned how to sound fluent in agreement while my actual point stays unsaid.

I’m trying to let my face and my words match. I’m tired of being misread by my own coping skills.