Being cooped up indoors and not being able to go anywhere means I should have plenty of time to write. Writing socially isolates the author. We tend to go off into our own little worlds and disappear into that universe. I can live inside my mind and be perfectly happy. When my parents would ground me, I’d drift off into reading or writing mode inside my mind and survive in these other worlds.
I don’t go as deeply into these worlds as I used to. I can’t zone out as much as I once did but I do indeed zone out. But I can’t tune out the reality of the situation anymore. Behind the universe of the book is the real universe telling me we’re all going to get sick and die. ahhhhhhh!
Yeah. Seriously, anxiety sucks.
