The components of anxiety, stress, fear, and anger do not exist

Host: The night pressed gently against the wide windows of the quiet studio, where the faint hum of city life drifted in — distant horns, a siren swallowed by wind, the rhythmic heartbeat of a world half-awake. Inside, the air felt still, as though it were holding its breath. A single lamp cast its golden halo across the room, illuminating dust motes that swirled lazily like suspended time.

Host: Jack sat at the edge of the low wooden table, his hands clasped loosely, his posture taut — the kind of tension that comes from trying to look relaxed when the mind won’t let you. Across from him, Jeeny sat cross-legged on the floor, a cup of tea cradled in her palms, her dark eyes soft but steady, her breathing calm, deliberate. Between them lay an open book, the words of Wayne Dyer glimmering faintly under the lamplight:

“The components of anxiety, stress, fear, and anger do not exist independently of you in the world. They simply do not exist in the physical world, even though we talk about them as if they do.”

Host: The words seemed to vibrate in the silence, echoing like a whisper that refused to fade.

Jack: “That’s ridiculous,” he said finally, his voice low, tight. “If stress doesn’t exist, then what the hell is this weight I feel every day? This pressure in my chest, this constant spinning in my head — is that imaginary?”

Jeeny: “Not imaginary,” she said softly. “But internal. What Dyer meant is that anxiety, fear, anger — they’re not things out there attacking you. They’re responses in here.” She touched her chest lightly. “They only exist because we feed them.”

Host: Jack let out a bitter laugh, the kind that sounded more like surrender than humor.

Jack: “So it’s my fault then? I create my own anxiety? That’s convenient. Another philosopher blaming people for their pain instead of the world that causes it.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “Not blame — power. If you create it, it means you can also uncreate it.”

Host: A quiet thunder rumbled somewhere far beyond the city, a storm forming on the edges of the horizon. The light flickered briefly, and the sound seemed to settle between them — heavy, electric.

Jack: “You really think all this is just in my head?” He gestured to the open book, his hand trembling slightly. “Fear, stress, anger — you think they don’t exist in the world? Try telling that to someone under fire in a war zone. Or a child being hurt. Or someone who just lost everything.”

Jeeny: “You’re right,” she said. “Those things happen — the violence, the loss, the cruelty. But the emotions themselves, Jack… they don’t live in the world. They live in us. They’re our interpretations of reality, not reality itself.”

Jack: “Interpretations,” he repeated, his voice sharp. “That sounds like the kind of word people use when they’ve never actually suffered.”

Jeeny: “Or,” she said gently, “the kind of word used by people who have, and learned to survive it.”

Host: The rain began, a soft tapping against the glass — hesitant at first, then growing steady. It filled the silence between them, like an instrument tuning itself before a confession.

Jack: “So you think I could just… stop being anxious if I wanted to? Just decide to not feel fear? That’s not how it works, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, her eyes not leaving his. “But it’s how it begins. You start by seeing that fear doesn’t belong to the world — it belongs to the story you’re telling about the world. Change the story, and the feeling shifts.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple,” she whispered. “It’s just possible.”

Host: The lamplight shimmered in her eyes, twin orbs of quiet fire. Jack leaned back slightly, staring out at the blurred cityscape beyond the glass — lights bleeding into rain, the world dissolving into watercolor motion.

Jack: “When I was a kid,” he began slowly, “I used to lie awake thinking the dark was alive. I’d swear I could feel it — breathing, waiting. I’d pull the blanket over my head, and my heart would race like I was being chased. My father used to say, ‘There’s nothing out there, Jack. It’s just your imagination.’ But that didn’t make it stop.”

Jeeny: “Because you believed the fear,” she said softly. “Not the truth.”

Jack: “And what’s the truth?”

Jeeny: “That fear isn’t outside the window. It’s in the part of you that’s afraid of your own mind.”

Host: Her words landed like slow thunder — not loud, but impossible to ignore. Jack’s shoulders sagged slightly, the fight in his expression beginning to give way to something quieter — fatigue, maybe. Or recognition.

Jack: “So you’re saying,” he said finally, “that if I stop reacting, the world stops hurting me?”

Jeeny: “Not stops,” she said, shaking her head. “But it changes shape. The world stops being an enemy. It becomes a mirror.”

Host: The rain intensified, streaking the windows like lines of silver ink. The storm outside seemed to echo the conversation — the chaos mirroring the calm.

Jack: “You know,” he said after a long pause, “I think that’s what makes me angry about all this spiritual talk. It assumes the world is fair. That if you just breathe or meditate or change your story, you can erase pain. But pain is real, Jeeny. It’s everywhere.”

Jeeny: “Of course it’s real,” she said, her voice trembling slightly for the first time. “But suffering isn’t the same as pain. Pain happens — it’s life’s demand for attention. Suffering is what we build around it. That’s what Dyer meant — the mind turns pain into a universe. It gives it gravity.”

Host: A flash of lightning filled the room for a heartbeat, washing their faces in pale white. For that instant, they looked like two souls suspended between light and shadow — two versions of the same search.

Jack: “And what if the mind can’t let go?” he asked quietly. “What if the storm never stops?”

Jeeny: “Then you stop fighting the rain,” she said. “You sit in it. You let it fall until you realize — the sky isn’t angry. It’s just clearing itself.”

Host: Her words seemed to reach him. Slowly, Jack’s hand relaxed on the table. The sound of the rain grew softer, almost tender now, like a heartbeat returning to rhythm.

Jack: “So fear, anger, anxiety — they’re all self-made?”

Jeeny: “They’re self-fed,” she corrected. “Born when the mind forgets it’s the one holding the brush. The world doesn’t paint our emotions, Jack. We do.”

Host: He looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, something in his expression resembled calm.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve been there,” he said.

Jeeny: “We all have,” she replied. “Some of us just learned to stop building altars to our emotions.”

Host: The rain began to slow, and the city lights grew clearer beyond the glass. In the soft quiet that followed, the air in the room felt changed — lighter somehow, like something invisible had been unclenched.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right,” he said finally. “Maybe the world doesn’t give us fear. Maybe it just gives us chances — to see what we’ll do with it.”

Jeeny: “Exactly,” she said with a small smile. “The storm was never outside, Jack. It was always waiting for you to stop calling it weather.”

Host: The camera would linger now — the lamp’s glow dimming, the rain easing into silence. The book on the table still open, the underlined words glimmering in the last trace of light:

Host: “They do not exist in the physical world, even though we talk about them as if they do.”

Host: Outside, the streets shimmered — wet, clean, reborn. Inside, Jack closed the book gently, his reflection in the window no longer fractured but whole.

Host: And as the scene faded, one truth lingered like a quiet chord at the end of a symphony:

Host: That peace does not come from controlling the world — but from remembering that the world was never the source of our storms at all.