Barely moving a muscle, I break into a heavy sweat. My mouth runs dry and I forget for a moment to even breathe. I don’t actually need to use the bathroom anymore (I’d been nervous all morning), but my body promises terrible things will happen if I don’t go right now. But then I’ll be late to the stage and utterly embarrassed. Every organ screams, “Run now!”
This is roughly how it feels to be within ten minutes of taking the stage to give any kind of public talk. It’s a form of anxiety, totally irrational, but still quite potentially debilitating, if I let it. To compensate, I take long deep breaths to calm down. I meditate on how it’s all going to be ok, it’s all perfectly natural, and it always works out. And yet if I’m waiting long enough for that on-stage welcome to arrive, I might go through this same dumb routine some 3 or 4 times in series.
In high school, I was content at being a stage manager or lighting director for any play. I dreaded being in the spotlight or even out on stage during a show. In college, I was on a team responsible for enforcing a “dry rush” policy (no alcohol under 21 for fraternity recruiting events). I caught one fraternity cheating. And I remember the terror of walking down the street to the jeers of that entire busted fraternity standing outside their house, shouting me down, while my own fraternity brothers stood by across the street, watching.
