He wears his anxiety like an outdated polyester shirt, tight and two sizes too small, riding up when he sits down, full of snags and static cling.
She wears her anxiety like swollen feet stuffed into brand new stilting stilettos, awkwardly teetering on the brink of a disastrous debacle.
His hands weep in fearful agitation, they are wet and cold and clammy. He thrusts them into the void of his pockets. He hates the way they give him away.
She feels the heat and smells her angst turning her scent into a stagnating stench. After so much time and attention to detail, she despises the body trying to betray her.
Both, slaves to fear and fretful apprehension. Trepidation working like tenacious termites burrowing deep, riddling their tender, troubled and anxious minds.
Anxiety feeds on their insecurities and uncertainties, delighting in their discomfort. It works them over, strings them up and leaves them… dangling on invisible tenterhooks.