The Fretter’s Feedback Loop: Why Your Brain Can’t Just “Move On” From a Scare

There are times when the body throws a spanner in the works and the mind immediately sprints onto the pitch with a megaphone, shouting, “Right, everyone panic!”

If you’re a fretter (like me 🫣), you know this choreography well. The body senses a tiny, unexpected flare—a momentary hiccup in the system—and the mind goes, 'Oh, we’re doing this again? Excellent. Let me open the Catastrophic Possibilities spreadsheet.'

For me, it’s my heart. For you, it might be something entirely different: a sudden wobble, a surprise appointment, or even just a nagging feeling that something is 'off.' The trigger varies, but the spiral is suspiciously similar.

But for those of us with a noisy 'What If' filter, the ‘all clear’ doesn’t mean the ‘all quiet.’

Once the immediate dust settles, you find yourself in a strange no-man’s land. The 'event' is technically over, and the world expects you to just exhale and move on, but your internal frequency is still humming at a frantic pitch.

This is when that weird emotional tug-of-war starts—the one where you’re relieved to have got through it, yet entirely not okay. It’s a messy internal argument that sounds a lot like this:

“I’m so lucky it wasn’t worse.”

“So why am I still shaking?”

“Why can’t I just be relieved like a ‘normal’ person?”

“Why is my body mending, but my brain is still patrolling the perimeter?”

Here’s the truth: Getting through the 'thing' is only half the battle. The real work is living with the emotional shadow it casts afterward. Often, that shadow feels much bigger and more overwhelming than the 'thing' ever was.

We expect physical healing to be fairly straightforward, but the emotional side of things doesn't follow the rules. It doesn't care if you’re having a 'good patch' or if everything looks fine on the surface. It’s a manual, exhausting slog of a recovery that is often far less tidy—and far less understood—than the physical one.

This isn't 'overreacting.' It’s what happens when you’ve had a proper jolt and your brain doesn't know where to put all that leftover energy. It’s just part of the package for people like us. It looks like replaying the moment on a loop, sudden tears at inconvenient times, or a heaviness that doesn’t match the 'you’re fine now' narrative everyone else sees.

The world loves a milestone it can measure—things like test results, physical strength, or being told you’re 'fine now.' But we know the truth: the mental recovery is a completely different marathon. It’s the slow, quiet process of learning how to breathe again without overthinking it, and trying to trust your own body when it’s felt like it’s let you down. It’s about finally being able to sleep without listening for danger in every little creak or thumping pulse, and eventually, learning how to just be without constantly bracing yourself for the next hit.

Sometimes that emotional load is the heaviest part of the whole journey. It’s the invisible weight no one else sees—the part you don’t even realise you’re carrying until you finally feel safe enough for your shoulders to drop.

If you are sitting in that space right now—the space where your head and body are having a spectacular collision—please hear this: You are not being dramatic. You are not ungrateful. And you are definitely not 'making a fuss.'

You’re just a human with an internal security team that’s a bit too keen on health and safety. It’s like having a bodyguard who insists you wear a helmet to eat your cornflakes. It’s a bit much, and it's definitely exhausting, but they only do it because they’ve got your back.

Your body went through something, and your mind is currently doing the equivalent of double-checking the locks and making sure the immersion is off. It’s just trying to catch up. Both of you—the worried brain and the wobbling body—deserve a bit of gentleness right now.

I know it’s not as easy as just 'letting it go'—our brains don’t exactly come with a 'mute' button for the what-ifs. But honestly, even just sitting here and trying to find a way through the noise is a massive deal. It takes a lot of guts to face that internal megaphone and decide to keep going anyway.

You should be incredibly proud of yourself for just being willing to try. Because some days, just existing while your head and body are at odds is the hardest shift you’ll ever work.

Just take it one step at a time. We’re all in this slightly chaotic loop together.

So when you have one of those days that just feels a bit 'off,' just think of it like trying to play your favourite game on your phone while it’s decided (entirely without your permission) to update every single app at once. The screen is laggy, your character is running into walls, and the 'What If' notifications won't stop popping up at the top.

You aren't broken; you're just dealing with a bit of extra background chatter. You don't need to fix the hardware or even trade in your brain 🤯; you just need to let the little spinning 'loading' circle do its thing for a while.

If you’re glitching a little today, that's okay. Put the phone down, make a cuppa, and let the system catch up. You’re still in the game, even if you’re currently stuck on the loading screen.

Be patient with the progress bar—you’re doing better than you think. 

Here are two more pieces you’re welcome to visit next:

Daily Challenges: How Trauma and Health Struggles Fuel Anxiety

The Armour You Never Asked For: When Your Body Overreacts to Everything

Thanks for reading and virtual hugs to you all.