Anxiety is simultaneously meaningful and profane.

It is physical (I am PMSing; I am ill; my head hurts; I sprained my ankle), emotional (I can't think, my eyes well), psychological (what if it could be better? why me? do I feel something else hurting?), existential (why is pain not meaningless?), intensely personal (how can you know what I feel?) and surprisingly fleeting (it will be better tomorrow; or at least different).

Mindful work is on the rise....

Reading Alain De Botton's "How Proust Can Change your Life".
Writing about Trespassers.
Thinking about self-help and self-improvement as a genre that unwittingly identifies that which is extraordinarily pathétique. (Read "The Happiness Project" and see if you can get a sense of this; if not then ah well, what do I know?)