Panic, But Polite: Surviving Anxiety in Public

Ever had a panic attack in the middle of a shop? Not the nice, quiet, contemplative kind of shop. The kind with fluorescent lighting that buzzes slightly out of sync, and a queue that isn't moving, and a woman behind you who keeps inching her trolley into your personal space like she's trying to merge into your actual body.

Or on a bus? A crowded bus. The kind where you're pressed up against the window, which won't open, and someone is playing music through their phone speaker—not even good music, just tinny, distorted noise—and you can feel your heart starting to do that thing. That thing. And you're trapped. Between stops. With nowhere to go.

Or—and this is the one that really gets me—while walking past someone you know. Someone you haven't seen in ages. Someone who says, brightly, "How ARE you?" and expects a real answer. And you're standing there, smiling rigidly, while your nervous system is staging a full-scale mutiny, and you hear yourself say, "I'm fine, thanks! You?" like a perfectly normal human who isn't currently experiencing an internal apocalypse.

Welcome to the club. Membership is free. Benefits include red cheeks, a racing heart, sweaty palms, and the unique skill of maintaining polite conversation while your brain screams "ABORT ABORT ABORT" at full volume. We meet on Tuesdays. No, we don't. That would involve leaving the house.

Let's talk about it. Panic in public. The special kind of hell reserved for those of us whose brains like to sound the alarm at wildly inappropriate moments. How to survive it. How to escape gracefully. And how to stop feeling like you need to apologise for having a nervous system that's a bit... extra.

Before You Leave the House: The Pre-Exit Strategy

I've learned—through years of trial, error, and at least one memorable incident in the frozen foods aisle—that a little preparation goes a long way. Not because preparation prevents panic. (Wouldn't that be nice? A little checklist and poof, no more anxiety. Sadly, no.) But because preparation gives you options. And when panic hits, options are everything.

Locate the Exits

This sounds dramatic. It is a bit dramatic. But knowing where the exit is—in a shop, a café, a cinema, a waiting room—gives your brain a tiny scrap of reassurance. "There's a way out. I'm not trapped. If I need to leave, I can."

You don't have to do a full security sweep. Just a casual glance as you enter. "Oh, there's the door. Good to know." Your brain logs it. Files it under "escape routes." And that small act of noticing can lower the baseline anxiety just enough to get through the shopping trip without incident.

Carry Calming Cues

Not everyone needs this, but if you're prone to public panic, having something in your pocket or bag that grounds you can be a lifesaver. A small, discreet anchor to the present moment.

Mine include:

• A smooth stone. Picked up on a beach years ago. It lives in my coat pocket. When I'm starting to spiral, I roll it between my fingers. The texture. The weight. The coolness. It says, "You're here. You're holding something real. You're okay."
• A strong mint. Not for breath purposes. For sensory interruption. The sharp, cold hit of peppermint can jolt your brain out of a panic loop just long enough to get to an exit or a quiet corner.
• Headphones. Even if I'm not listening to anything. Wearing them creates a tiny bubble of "I'm not fully available right now." It's a social signal that says, "Please don't engage me in small talk unless absolutely necessary." And if I am listening to something—a podcast, some calming music, a guided breathing track—even better.

Pre-Plan the Escape Strategy

This one's for the overthinkers. (Hello. It's me.) Before I go anywhere potentially triggering—a busy supermarket, a social event, a work thing—I let myself think through the worst-case scenario. Not in a catastrophising way. In a practical, "what would I actually do" way.

"If I start to panic in here, I'll put my basket down and walk out. I don't have to explain. I don't have to finish the shopping. I can just leave. I'll go to the car. Or the bench outside. Or the loo. I'll sit for five minutes. I'll do some box breathing. And then I'll decide whether to go back in or go home."

Having a plan—even a rough one—reduces the fear of the panic itself. Because the scariest part of public panic isn't the physical sensations. It's the feeling of being trapped. Of having no options. Of being stuck in a fluorescent-lit nightmare with no way out. A plan gives you a way out. Even if you never use it, knowing it's there helps.

In the Moment: Grounding When You Can't Exactly Lie Down on the Floor

So you're out. You're in public. And despite your best preparations, the panic is rising. Your heart is hammering. Your vision has gone a bit swimmy. You're holding onto the shelf edge like it's the only thing keeping you upright. What now?

You can't exactly lie down on the floor of Tesco and do a full grounding exercise. (I mean, you could. But I wouldn't recommend it. People would stare. Someone would probably ask if you needed a first aider. It would become A Whole Thing.)

Instead, you need discreet, subtle techniques. Things you can do while standing up, looking vaguely normal, maybe even continuing to hold a shopping basket.

The Discreet 5-4-3-2-1

The full 5-4-3-2-1 grounding exercise is excellent, but it involves saying things out loud or at least mouthing them, which can look a bit odd in the bread aisle. Here's the subtle version:

• 5 things you can see. Just name them in your head. "The yellow sticker on that loaf of bread. The red '3 for 2' sign. The pattern on the floor tiles. The woman's green coat. My own hand on the trolley."
• 4 things you can feel. Again, internally. "The cold metal of the trolley handle. The weight of my bag on my shoulder. The texture of my jeans against my leg. The stone in my pocket."
• 3 things you can hear. "The hum of the fridges. The beep of the till. The distant sound of a child asking for sweets."
• 2 things you can smell. "Bread. Just... general bread smell. And maybe floor cleaner."
• 1 thing you can taste. "The ghost of the mint I had earlier. Or just... mouth taste. That's fine too."

The whole thing takes maybe thirty seconds. You can do it while walking slowly, or standing still pretending to read a label. No one knows. You look like a normal person contemplating pasta sauce. Inside, you're saving your own life.

Box Breathing (The Standing Up Version)

Box breathing is brilliant. Inhale four, hold four, exhale four, hold four. But counting out loud in public is not ideal. And closing your eyes in the middle of a shop feels vulnerable.

Instead, try this:

• Inhale slowly through your nose while you count four steps. (If you're walking. If you're standing still, count in your head while looking at something boring, like the ingredients on a tin of beans.)
• Hold for a count of four. Keep looking at the beans. Fascinating, beans. So many varieties.
• Exhale slowly through pursed lips for a count of six. (I prefer a longer exhale. It activates the vagus nerve more effectively. But four is fine if six feels like a lot.)
• Hold for another four.

Repeat three or four times. Then let your breathing do whatever it wants. The goal isn't to control it perfectly. The goal is to signal to your nervous system that you're not running from a tiger. You're just standing in a shop, looking at beans. Perfectly safe. Perfectly boring. Nothing to see here.

The Mantra (Internal, Obviously)

Sometimes you need words. Something to anchor your thoughts when they're spiralling off into "what if I faint what if I'm sick what if everyone is looking at me what if I have to run out what if—"

Pick a phrase. Keep it simple. Repeat it in your head until the panic starts to ease.

Mine is: "This will pass. I am safe. This will pass."

Yours might be different. Maybe it's a single word: "Steady." Or a reminder: "I've survived this before." Or something slightly more British and self-deprecating: "You're fine. Stop being a tit."

Whatever works. The repetition gives your brain something to do besides generate catastrophe scenarios. It's a mental fidget spinner. A small, rhythmic anchor in the chaos.

The Social Bit: How to Excuse Yourself Without Causing a Scene

This is the part I find hardest. The social navigation. The managing of other people's expectations while your own internal world is crumbling.

Because here's the thing: when you're panicking in public, you're not just dealing with the panic. You're also dealing with the fear of being seen panicking. The fear of judgment. The fear of making things awkward. The fear of someone asking "Are you okay?" and having to explain, while your voice shakes and your eyes well up, that no, you're not okay, but also you can't really explain why because there's no actual reason, you're just... panicking. For no reason. In the middle of the cereal aisle.

It's a lot.

It's Fine to Politely Excuse Yourself

Here's what I've learned, slowly and painfully, over years of trying to push through and pretend everything was fine: you are allowed to leave.

You don't have to finish the conversation. You don't have to buy the thing. You don't have to stay in the room, or the queue, or the bus, or the party. Your needs come first. Your nervous system is screaming at you for a reason. Listen to it.

You can say:

• "I'm so sorry, I've just remembered something I need to do. I'll catch up with you later."
• "Excuse me for a moment, I need some air."
• "I'm not feeling great—nothing serious, just need to step outside."
• "I'm going to head off. Lovely to see you."

No one needs the full explanation. "I'm having a panic attack and I need to leave immediately or I might actually dissolve" is not required. A simple, polite exit is enough. Most people won't question it. And if they do? That's their issue, not yours.

If You're With Someone Who Knows

If you're out with a trusted person—a partner, a friend, a family member who gets it—it can help to have a code. A word or phrase that means "I'm starting to panic and I need to leave or find somewhere quiet."

Mine with my partner is simply: "I'm feeling a bit wobbly."

That's it. "Wobbly" means we find a bench. Or we go outside. Or we abandon the shopping trip and go home. No questions. No fuss. Just a quiet acknowledgment that my nervous system has decided now is the time for a fire drill, and we need to respond accordingly.

If you don't have a code, consider making one. It takes the pressure off having to explain in the moment. When you're mid-panic, words are hard. "Wobbly" is easy.

What If Someone Notices?

Sometimes people notice. They see you looking pale, or gripping the shelf, or breathing a bit strangely. They might ask if you're okay.

It's fine. You can say:

• "I'm fine, thanks—just a bit dizzy. I'll sit down for a moment."
• "I'm okay, just need some water."
• "Bit of a funny turn. It'll pass."

You don't owe anyone your medical history. You don't have to say the word "panic" if you don't want to. A vague, polite reassurance is enough. Most people will accept it and move on. They're busy with their own shopping, their own lives, their own internal worlds. They're not thinking about you nearly as much as your anxiety thinks they are.

Tools of the Trade: Discreet Grounding Items

I mentioned fidget items earlier, but they deserve their own section. Because finding the right small, discreet grounding tool can genuinely change your experience of being out in public.

Fidget Rings

These are brilliant. A simple band with a spinning outer layer. You can twist it with your thumb while your hand is in your pocket, or while holding a shopping basket. No one notices. It gives your fingers something to do, which gives your brain something else to focus on. I have one in silver. It looks like normal jewellery. It's not.

Tactile Keyrings

A small, textured charm on your keys. Something with ridges, or bumps, or a smooth stone surface. When you're standing in a queue feeling the panic rise, you can reach into your pocket and run your thumb over it. Again—discreet. Again—grounding. Your brain registers the sensation and thinks, "Oh. We're feeling something real. Not just the imaginary catastrophe."

The Cold Water Bottle

I carry a metal water bottle. Partly for hydration, partly because metal stays cold. When I feel a hot flush or a panic spike coming on, I press it against the inside of my wrist. The cold is a small shock to the system. It interrupts the panic loop. And to anyone watching, I'm just holding my water bottle. Completely unremarkable.

A Small Notebook

Not for journaling in public—though you could. For writing down the thing that's triggering you, if you can identify it. Sometimes just the act of getting it out of your head and onto paper, even in scribbled shorthand, reduces its power. "Crowded. Loud. Trapped." Three words. And suddenly it's not an overwhelming internal storm. It's just three words on a page.

Takeaways: Tea, Validation, and the Art of the Polite Exit

You Are Allowed to Take Space

If you remember nothing else from this post, remember this: You are allowed to take space. You are allowed to care for yourself. You do not have to push through to make other people comfortable.

Your nervous system is doing its best. It's a bit overenthusiastic, a bit dramatic, a bit quick to sound the alarm. But it's yours. And it needs you to listen to it, not override it.

Leaving a situation that's triggering you isn't weakness. It's wisdom. It's knowing yourself well enough to say, "This isn't working for me right now. I'm going to step away." That's a skill. A hard-won, deeply valuable skill.

The Tip: Find Your Fidget

If you don't already have a small, discreet grounding tool, consider finding one. A ring. A stone. A keyring. Something that fits in your pocket or your palm. Something you can reach for when the world gets loud and your brain gets louder.

It won't stop the panic. But it might give you a tiny anchor. A small, steady point in the chaos. And sometimes that's enough to get you to the exit, or the bench, or the quiet corner where you can breathe properly again.

The Humour: If Panic Attacks Were Polite

If panic attacks were polite, they'd bring you a cup of tea. They'd say, "Terribly sorry to bother you, but I wonder if you might have a moment for a complete nervous system meltdown? Only if it's convenient. No rush. I'll just wait here quietly until you've finished your biscuit."

But they're not polite. Panic attacks are rude. They barge in. They interrupt. They don't care if you're in the middle of something. They don't care if you're in public. They just show up, uninvited, and make themselves at home in your chest and your throat and your racing heart.

The least we can do is be rude back. To say, "Not now. I'm busy. I'm in the middle of Tesco. You'll have to wait."

And then—because we're British, because we were raised to be polite even in the face of internal catastrophe—we excuse ourselves quietly, find a bench or a loo or a patch of fresh air, and we deal with it there. Away from the fluorescent lights and the tinny phone music and the woman with the trolley who won't stop inching forward.

Panic, but polite. It's not ideal. But it's what we've got. And we're doing just fine with it, thank you very much.

Anxiously Ever After is written by me, Jennie, a 50-something-year-old woman navigating lifelong anxiety, diagnosed GAD, and the particular challenge of having panic attacks in places where lying down on the floor isn't socially acceptable. I write with warmth, honesty, and as much humour as I can locate between deep breaths.