People who are prone to anxiety are nearly always people-pleasers

Host: The room was a storm of silence.
The rain pressed against the tall windows of Jeeny’s apartment — not hard, not furious, but steady, rhythmic, as though the sky itself were exhaling its fatigue. The soft flicker of candlelight moved across the books on the table, across the half-finished cup of tea, across Jack’s face — weary, thoughtful, detached.

Jeeny sat across from him, knees tucked beneath her, her eyes watching the flame dance. The air between them was taut with something unspoken — tension wrapped in tenderness, fear wrapped in familiarity.

Jeeny: (reading softly from her phone)
“David D. Burns once said, ‘People who are prone to anxiety are nearly always people-pleasers who fear conflict and negative feelings like anger. When you feel upset, you sweep your problems under the rug because you don't want to upset anyone. You do this so quickly and automatically that you're not even aware you're doing it.’”

Jack: (leaning back, exhaling) “That sounds uncomfortably familiar.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “I thought it might.”

Jack: “You think I’m one of those people — the anxiety-ridden peacemaker?”

Jeeny: “You don’t have to be a peacemaker to be afraid of conflict, Jack.”

Jack: (with a dry laugh) “Oh, I don’t fear conflict. I just pick ones I can win.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s control, not courage.”

Host: The flame flickered, trembling briefly as if startled by the tension. Outside, the rain thickened, drumming against the glass. The faint hum of thunder rolled somewhere in the distance — patient, waiting.

Jack: “So Burns thinks anxiety is just buried anger?”

Jeeny: “Not buried — disguised. Anxiety is how your body says what your mouth refuses to.”

Jack: “And what if your anger isn’t justified?”

Jeeny: “Anger doesn’t ask for permission to exist. It’s not about being right; it’s about being real.”

Host: Jack’s eyes moved to the window — the city blurred beyond it, a watercolor of lights smudged by rain. He looked as though he was trying to see something through himself.

Jack: “You ever notice that anger feels safer when it’s aimed at yourself?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because it keeps you from losing anyone else.”

Jack: “Exactly. You can’t abandon yourself. You can only quietly erode.”

Jeeny: “That’s what anxiety does — it eats you from the inside, one unspoken truth at a time.”

Host: The room pulsed with quiet — a fragile heartbeat of confession and restraint. The candlelight danced across their faces, making their eyes gleam like reflections of two separate storms.

Jack: “You think being nice is just cowardice in a pretty dress?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Niceness without honesty isn’t kindness — it’s manipulation. You’re not protecting others when you hide your feelings, Jack. You’re protecting your image.”

Jack: (grimly) “Image?”

Jeeny: “The image of being good. Acceptable. Unshakable. The person who never causes trouble.”

Jack: (smirking) “And you? You cause trouble?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Only when it’s necessary.”

Host: The thunder murmured again, closer this time. The flicker of the candle grew restless, as if feeding on the charge between them.

Jack: “You know, I think Burns is half right. I’ve known anxious people who aren’t people-pleasers — just people trapped in their own heads.”

Jeeny: “But why do they stay trapped? Because they can’t bear the guilt of displeasing others. Every anxious thought starts with a ‘what if’: What if I hurt them? What if they hate me? What if I lose control? It’s all just fear disguised as virtue.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe virtue’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s misunderstood. Real virtue isn’t avoiding conflict — it’s standing in it without losing compassion.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, streaking down the window in shimmering threads. A train passed in the distance, its low hum echoing like a memory of departure.

Jack: “You ever do that? Sweep things under the rug?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Every day. I was raised to. My mother used to say, ‘Peace at any price.’ I learned early that silence could keep love.”

Jack: “And did it?”

Jeeny: “No. It just made the love quieter until it forgot my name.”

Host: Jack’s expression softened — a slow erosion of his usual armor. His grey eyes caught the candlelight and flickered, like the reflection of a storm barely held back.

Jack: “You think anxiety’s curable?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s transformable. Once you stop fearing conflict, anxiety has nothing left to feed on. You face what’s under the rug — even if it’s ugly.”

Jack: “And if you find something worse than fear?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop pretending it isn’t already living in you.”

Host: The candle’s flame steadied again, its tremble gone. The air in the room shifted — less tight, more human.

Jack: “I used to think anxiety meant weakness — like I was broken for feeling too much.”

Jeeny: “No. It means your soul’s listening too hard. You’ve tuned into everyone’s pain but your own.”

Jack: “So what do you do? Detune?”

Jeeny: “No. Balance the volume.”

Host: A faint smile ghosted across Jack’s lips. He looked down, tracing the rim of his mug, as if it were a small orbit of calm.

Jack: “Maybe that’s why I can’t sleep. I’m too busy rehearsing peace I don’t believe in.”

Jeeny: “Then stop rehearsing. Let things break. Let people be upset. That’s the cost of being real.”

Jack: “And if they leave?”

Jeeny: “Then they were never staying for you — just for the silence you offered.”

Host: Her voice was soft, but her words landed heavy — like gentle truth wearing steel beneath silk. Jack leaned back, his shoulders relaxing in defeat or understanding — perhaps both.

The rain began to fade, slowing to a whisper. The air smelled of petrichor, tea, and candied exhaustion.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Burns was right, Jack. People-pleasers don’t want peace — they want approval. And approval’s the quietest cage there is.”

Jack: “So, what’s freedom, then?”

Jeeny: “The courage to disappoint someone — and survive it.”

Host: The candle flame steadied now — calm, unflinching. The storm outside had spent itself, leaving only the hush of night.

Jack: “You know… that sounds terrifying.”

Jeeny: “It is. But it’s the kind of terror that feels like breathing again.”

Host: The city outside glowed faintly through the mist — reflections of distant lights caught on the slick streets like constellations misplaced.

Jeeny rose, crossed to the window, and drew the curtain slightly. She turned back to him — her silhouette framed by the soft luminescence of rain-soaked glass.

Jeeny: “Anxiety isn’t weakness, Jack. It’s misplaced empathy. You keep trying to hold everyone’s peace, and it keeps crushing your own.”

Jack: (quietly) “And if I stop holding it?”

Jeeny: “Then you finally have two free hands — one to fight, and one to forgive.”

Host: Silence fell again — the kind of silence that heals instead of hides.

Jack’s eyes lifted, the faintest spark of calm finding home in their grey. He reached forward, blew out the candle. Smoke curled upward, silver against the dark.

And as it rose — slow, deliberate, free — David D. Burns’s words found their echo in the quiet:

That anxiety is not born from fear alone,
but from the refusal to feel.
That peace kept by suppression
is no peace at all.
And that the heart’s first act of courage
is not conquering conflict —
but daring to exist,
even if it upsets the room.

Host: The last trace of smoke disappeared.
Outside, the clouds parted, revealing a sliver of moonlight —
faint, trembling, but unafraid.