I realize that I’ve been going in circle for an hour, hoping that I’ll bump into something that unlocks a solution to Anne’s suffering. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator. Maybe there’s something on the patio. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch. Maybe if I walk into our bedroom and sit next to her on the bed. Maybe if I hold her hand. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand. Maybe there’s something in the refrigerator.

She can’t keep down any food, and barely any liquids. I give her some pain meds and she throws them up almost immediately. Maybe if I hold her hand.

“I’m going to try to just go to sleep,” she says. “You don’t need to stay here.”

I stay there anyway, until she appears to be sleeping. Maybe if I don’t hold her hand.

I gently get off our bed and step over both of our dogs, who haven’t moved from Anne’s side of the bed since she got into it. They both look at me, and maybe I’m projecting, but I feel like there is concern in their eyes. “I’m worried, too,” I whisper. I walk through the living room. Maybe it’s between the cushions in the couch.

I try to watch TV, but I can’t pay attention. I try to look at the Internet, but I can’t pay attention. I try to read a book but I can’t pay attention. I look into our bedroom. Anne is on her side, and I stand in the doorway, making sure that I can see her breathe. Because that’s a thing I worry about when I’m not worrying about everything else. I walk out to the game room and drive my car around Los Santos, because I don’t have to pay much attention, and it’s a way to pass the time.

It’s just after midnight when Anne texts me: Water.

“Oh, good,” I think, “she can keep water down.” I set the controller down and walk back into the house.

I can hear her wailing, nearly to the point of screaming, as soon as I open the door. My stomach drops out of my body.

Watson, our cat, is walking around the house, making his morning announcements. I pry my eyes open, and see that there is the faintest hint of soft, grey light pushing itself against the edges of our bedroom shades.

I don’t feel too tired, surprisingly, and I lie in bed while I decide if I’m going to just go ahead and get up. I have a commitment in the evening, and I’ll probably be really wiped out by the time it’s over, but on the other hand, I won’t be struggling to fall asleep before midnight … unless my brain pulls the same bullshit it’s been pulling for weeks.

The next thing I know, the sun is blazing through the windows and I can hear Anne. She doesn’t sound good. She’s breathing heavily and making sounds like she’s in pain. So I get out of bed, and I’m in the other room before I’m fully awake. She’s clutching her side and writhing in pain.

“Something’s wrong,” she says. “I need you to take me to the emergency room.”

13 things people don’t realize you do because of your anxiety.

I don’t do all of these things, but I do a lot of them. It’s reassuring, in a weird way, to know that I’m not alone in these behaviors, and maybe it’ll be reassuring for some of you, too. If you don’t live with anxiety, but love someone who does, maybe this will help you understand the weird things we do.