Anxiety doesn’t need proof.
It only needs the beginning of a story.
A few nights ago, a woman from the top floor of our building leaned out the window and started shouting for help. Someone from the neighboring building did what any responsible person would do — they called 911. Within minutes, the area in front of our building filled with police cars, paramedics, negotiators, yellow tape. The street was partially blocked.
My mom, who lives on the ground floor, kept me updated with what she could see. I live on a higher floor, but on the opposite side of the building. I couldn’t see anything. I was just receiving fragments of information and feeling the quiet of the evening turn into a tension I couldn’t fully understand.
And that’s when the movie started.
The police were standing outside.
Just standing.
No one rushing in.
No visible intervention.
My anxious mind immediately made a connection no one had asked for: what if someone is in danger and authorities are just waiting? What if this is like the stories we’ve all seen on the news? What if the person who cried for help is being held inside? What if something terrible is happening behind a closed door while we all stand outside?
Within minutes, my brain had produced an entire series.
What if someone inside is hurting her?
What if someone turns on the gas and the building explodes?
What if the police wait too long?
What if… what if… what if…
At some point, noises started echoing through the stairwell. Quick footsteps. Doors opening. Whispers. Then a metallic sound. Someone was coming up the stairs carrying a large tool — the kind used to force open doors.
For a calm mind, it might have looked like a safety precaution.
For my anxious mind, it was confirmation that something terrible was unfolding behind a locked door.
Without real information, my imagination filled the empty spaces. And it filled them with what it knows best: worst-case scenarios.
The building manager showed up. People gathered on the stairs. I couldn’t hear the actual conversations, only see movement. And anxiety has a special talent: it cannot tolerate the unknown. It fills it immediately with the worst possible version.
I barely slept that night.
The next morning, I asked what had actually happened.
Reality was completely different from the movie in my head.
The woman who had shouted for help was alone in her apartment. She had been speaking through the closed door with police and a negotiator. There was no violence, no immediate danger. Just a delicate situation that required patience and calm. Eventually, they convinced her to open the door and carefully helped her walk down one floor — the elevator doesn’t reach the top level.
And just as they were about to leave, she remembered she had left her laptop on the outdoor unit of her air conditioner and wanted to go back for it.
That’s it.
No kidnapping.
No explosion.
No dramatic ending.
Just a real situation, handled calmly.
In that moment, I realized how quickly an anxious mind can build parallel realities. In the absence of clear information, it creates stories. And not just any stories — the most dramatic ones.
Looking back, I know my reactions weren’t justified. But in that moment, everything felt possible. Even likely.
That’s how anxiety works.
It doesn’t wait for confirmation.
It doesn’t verify facts.
It fills the gaps with fear.
And sometimes, by morning, it has already written the ending of a movie that never actually existed.