Over Thanksgiving, I was staying at my cousins' house. In the middle of the night, a strange woman jumped into my bed, pinned my arms above my head, looked me right in the eyes, and yelled, "I AM KIM!"
Fearing for my life, I wrestled her onto the floor, but she quickly pinned me again. The only defense I could muster was to start barking at her like a giant German Shepherd.
My wife heard me barking, gently touched my back, and woke me up.
It was just a dream. But my heart was pounding against my ribs, and I was soaked in sweat. My body was reacting to a life-or-death threat that literally did not exist outside of my own head.
We do the exact same thing when we are awake. We make up stories about a disastrous future—a failing company, a ruined reputation, a financial collapse—and then we live our lives as if that future is already happening in the room with us. We sweat. Our hearts pound. We bark at the people around us.
But our anxious daydreams rarely tell us anything about what's actually happening in the world. They only tell us whether we're looking at the world through a clear lens, or one smeared in German Shepherd poop.
Of course, once I realized I was just lying in a quiet bedroom, my heart rate dropped, and I went back to sleep. The threat didn't have to be defeated. I just had to wake up.