performance anxiety

The term ‘sick with worry’ means nothing to me before this morning, the concept of not eating breakfast alien to me every day of my life. But this morning I have to force my breakfast into a ridiculously queasy stomach. I crap myself empty between four thirty and six thirty, all because performance anxiety grip(e)s me.

Today I go to Warragul to present a workshop on pedagogy for mental health and well-being. I know that I know more than the five people coming to the workshop, but I have this desire for performance perfection. It’s my first go at this workshop: I know I’ve not mastered the material. In fact, there’ll be times when I’ll have no clue what’s coming next.

Rationally I tell myself that my ‘audience’ will know no better: I can make mistakes; they’ll never know. But the rational is fighting a losing battle with the perfection demon. I work till midnight, sleep till four, then work on till six thirty, pile my boxes into the hire care and tootle off to Warragul.

The arts centre is closed. I want an hour to set up, read through and be ready for my opening lines. But the place is shut and the box office isn’t open till eight thirty. The first participant arrives five minutes after me. Immediately, as I’ve always known, I’m fine. The anxiety melts away and I’m in total professional mode.

I chat and engage the group as they arrive. Outside a grey day hovers over the manicured park surrounding the centre which houses Baw Baw Shire as well. A lake with fountain fills the northern aspect of the glass wall that makes this a great place for a workshop.

The day goes well, the participants evaluations glowing. I bluster my way through and they fall for my act, the bullshitting, the passion, the stories that tumble out of me to illustrate the points I want them to take away and remember tomorrow and always when they step into a classroom.

I fight to keep my eyes open all the way home. Knowing the hire car has to be back at its Croydon base at eight tomorrow morning, I sort out my boxes and drive them into Collingwood. The lights in the office are blazing at half past eight at night: the cleaners are vacuuming, emptying bins, a Turkish or Armenian gent about my age and his daughter.  

My day finally ends, sixteen and a half hours after it began.

Rock on.