The Comedy of Catastrophising: Why My Brain Writes Ridiculous Disaster Scripts

There’s a particular flavour of anxious thinking that doesn’t get enough credit for its sheer creativity. It’s the kind where your mind takes a tiny, harmless moment and turns it into a high-budget disaster movie—not because anything is actually wrong, but because your brain has decided today is a fantastic day for drama.

And honestly? Sometimes the best thing you can do is sit back and admire the absolute nonsense of it.

That’s the paradox of catastrophising: in the moment, that frantic energy feels completely genuine, but the storyline your brain pitches? Pure fiction. It usually starts with something so ordinary you barely notice it, right before your mind grabs the baton and sprints off into the sunset.

Which is exactly what happened to me recently.

Before our grandkids arrived for a visit, I hastily shoved my “ironing pile” into the top of the wardrobe to make the room look vaguely presentable. Then—because my brain loves playing practical jokes on itself—I promptly forgot the stash existed.

Fast forward two weeks: some of my favourite tops had mysteriously vanished, and my mother-in-law was (not so subtly) hinting her skirts had entered some kind of secret laundry relocation scheme—presumably because I’d lost my five‑star rating for timely service.

And that was it. My brain saw its chance:

Someone had clearly staged a high-stakes laundry heist from my washing line involving grappling hooks and an unmarked getaway van filled with my floral prints.

I’d accidentally donated half my wardrobe to charity—and they were probably already arranging a fashion show called “Carole’s Lost Collection.”

I’d packed them in the kids’ bags—meaning my favourite tops were now on a mini‑holiday at my daughter’s house, eating biscuits and watching cartoons.

Basically, I’d single‑handedly caused a textile‑based international incident.

The leap is where the real artistry happens. You go from “Hmm, that’s odd” to “Maybe it’s nothing” to “Actually, we’re entirely doomed” in the exact amount of time it takes the kettle to boil. It’s as though a whole team of hyperactive internal writers have taken over the production, determined to turn a mild inconvenience into the next blockbuster thriller.

It’s the same frantic energy that once convinced me the treadmill turning itself on meant a giant, fitness-obsessed spider had moved in. Not a dodgy wire. A spider named Fred—complete with a neon sweatband, slip-on trainers (because eight laces take far too long), and an unshakeable determination to smash his daily cardio targets. Or the time an unread message for ten minutes meant I was destined to spend my retirement alone in the woods, trading berries with a family of raccoons.

None of it was logical, but in the heat of the moment, the brain treats every wild script as breaking news.

And honestly, for me, having a quiet chuckle at the sheer absurdity of it all is the best antidote. Not pretending the worry didn’t happen, but poking my head into the internal writer’s room and saying, “Come on, let’s try and dial down the Hollywood budget just for a second.”

It doesn't instantly solve everything, but it can take the sting out just enough for me to let go of the breath I was holding.

Eventually, the imaginary raccoons pack their bags. Fred retires from treadmill athletics. And the missing laundry turns up exactly where I left it—squashed in the top of the wardrobe, entirely unbothered by the drama it caused.

Once the dust settles, the reality is always much simpler: the worry felt real, but the story never was.

If your mind tends to write catastrophic scripts over ordinary hiccups, you aren’t foolish, and you aren’t just being dramatic. You’re simply human—and your brain is trying, in its own clumsy, overzealous way, to prepare you for every worst-case scenario. Finding even a tiny sliver of humour won't erase the anxiety completely, but it strips the script of its power. And sometimes, turning the drama down just one single notch is all you really need.

Think of it like having an over-eager stagehand working the special effects backstage. The script calls for a light summer breeze, but they’ve accidentally cranked the fog machine to maximum, started banging the thunder sheets, and dimmed the house lights to pitch black. You don’t need to cancel the show—you just need to lean around the curtain and remind them it’s a cozy village play, not a high-stakes thriller.

Here are two more pieces you can dip into whenever it feels right:

The Gameshow Called Anxiety: Trying to Decode a Brain That Won’t Play Fair

The Emotional Draft: Why You Rehearse Conversations in Your Head 

Thanks for reading and virtual hugs to you all.