Like around 5 percent of the UK population, I suffer from generalized anxiety disorder. When I was a kid I would worry about certain things—usually catastrophic in scale but blown entirely out of proportion—When I was ten, I learned about comets at a museum. For weeks, I’d lie awake at night worrying that a comet might be heading on a collision course with Earth. As a teenager I believed I suffered from every incredibly rare and fatal disease I saw on TV. These days my anxiety manifests in a way that’s much harder to explain to people who haven’t experienced it: Imagine a sort of mild feeling of dread, a bit like the fear you get when you’re hungover and know you did something but don’t know what. That, but basically all the time.