I remember the first time I realized my anxiety had become a problem. I was with friends in a popular Glasgow bar watching Sunday afternoon soccer. It was quiet, and alongside our table stood three vacant chairs: two with sturdy wooden panels fixed to the space between the top of the backrest and the cushion, and one without. I was sat closest to the seat missing the support and could see that, although otherwise identical to the others, there were no screw holes or any obvious signs that this chair ever had a support panel, or was supposed to have one attached at all.
Why was this, I wondered. Why was this chair missing part of its intended structure? Why had the support not been fitted? Or why was it taken off? Where was the missing support now? How could someone have noticed this defect and not have fixed it? I became entranced and angry. My blood boiled and my palms began to sweat. One eye on the soccer, one on the ill-fitted chair. I eventually went outside to catch some fresh air and to calm down.