Worry is a cycle of inefficient thoughts whirling around a center

Host: The rain had stopped, but the world was still wet — shimmering in streetlight reflections, quiet, hushed, as though the city had paused to breathe. The café at the corner was nearly empty, its windows fogged, its neon sign buzzing like a heartbeat too tired to keep time.

Jack sat near the window, staring at his coffee, which had gone cold but not yet forgotten its purpose. His grey eyes moved with disquiet — trapped, unresting, haunted by the kind of thoughts that turn endlessly, like a wheel in mud.

Jeeny entered, closing her umbrella, shaking off raindrops that scattered like tiny diamonds across the floor. She spotted him — the familiar curve of his shoulders, the weight he carried in silence — and walked over.

The clock ticked overhead. It was a soft sound, but to Jack, it felt like judgment.

Jeeny: “You look like you’ve been arguing with God again.”

Jack: half-smiling, half-breaking “Not God. Just my thoughts. They’re louder than He is.”

Jeeny: “Worrying again?”

Jack: “If thinking too much were an Olympic sport, I’d have gold medals.”

Jeeny: “Corrie ten Boom once said, ‘Worry is a cycle of inefficient thoughts whirling around a center of fear.’”

Jack: “I know the quote. I just can’t find the brakes.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because you keep mistaking the cycle for motion.”

Host: The rainlight from the window fell across Jack’s face, highlighting the tension in his jaw, the shadow beneath his eyes — the portrait of a man trapped not by walls, but by his own mind.

Jack: “You really think worry is useless?”

Jeeny: “Not useless. Just unproductive. It’s like rocking in a chair — it gives you something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.”

Jack: “So I should just stop caring?”

Jeeny: “No. You should stop confusing worry with care.”

Jack: “They’re the same thing to me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem.”

Host: Her voice was gentle, but it cut through his fog like a beam of light through smoke.

Jack: “You make it sound so easy — like you can just step outside your head and tell your thoughts to shut up.”

Jeeny: “You can’t stop the thoughts. You can stop feeding them.”

Jack: “And what do I feed them with?”

Jeeny: “Fear. Always fear.”

Host: The silence that followed was not empty — it was dense, alive, thick with the electric hum of unspoken truths.

Jack: “You really think that’s what this is — fear? I call it preparation. Strategy. Planning for worst-case scenarios.”

Jeeny: “You call it control. I call it panic in disguise.”

Jack: “That’s just survival.”

Jeeny: “Survival doesn’t need to suffer this much.”

Host: Jack looked away, his reflection caught in the window — ghostly, doubled, fading into the city lights beyond.

Jack: “When you’ve lost things before, you start living like loss is waiting behind every corner. Worry keeps me ready.”

Jeeny: “No. Worry keeps you weary.”

Jack: “You think I can just stop being afraid of losing things?”

Jeeny: “No. But you can stop rehearsing the loss before it happens.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, whispering, almost tender. It tapped the window in slow rhythms, like the world’s heartbeat trying to soothe him.

Jeeny: “Corrie ten Boom survived a concentration camp, Jack. If anyone had the right to worry, it was her. But she didn’t. She said fear was the center — the nucleus — and worry was just orbiting it endlessly. She knew if you stopped orbiting, you’d find peace.”

Jack: “That’s easy for saints. I’m just human.”

Jeeny: “So was she. That’s the point.”

Jack: “You think faith fixes fear?”

Jeeny: “Not faith — trust. Faith believes. Trust releases.”

Jack: “And if you release and everything falls apart?”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it was never in your hands to hold.”

Host: He leaned forward, his fingers tightening on the cup, knuckles white. His voice, when it came, was hoarse, low, as if the truth itself was scraping its way out.

Jack: “You don’t understand. When I stop worrying, I feel useless. Like if I don’t hold it all together in my head, it’ll fall apart in reality.”

Jeeny: “That’s the illusion. Worry makes you feel powerful, but it only keeps you prisoner.”

Jack: “So what? I should just… let things be?”

Jeeny: “Yes.”

Jack: “That sounds like surrender.”

Jeeny: “It’s freedom.”

Host: The lamp above their table flickered, casting shadows that moved like ghosts across the wall.

Jeeny: “Fear is a liar, Jack. It convinces you that if you think long enough, you can outsmart life. But you can’t.”

Jack: “Then what am I supposed to do with it?”

Jeeny: “Look at it. Name it. And then stop building your world around it.”

Host: The rain thickened, the street outside now a canvas of reflections — lamps, cars, faces blurred by water. Inside, the café felt like a confession booth.

Jack: “You ever been afraid like that? The kind that sits in your chest like a stone?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The night my brother went missing in the floods, I thought I’d never breathe again. I worried every second. And you know what I realized?”

Jack: “What?”

Jeeny: “Worry doesn’t stop the storm. It just keeps you from seeing when it’s over.”

Jack: quietly “Did he come back?”

Jeeny: “No. But I did.”

Host: The room froze around her words — the air heavy, the clock stilled, the rain softening as if in reverence.

Jack: “And you stopped worrying after that?”

Jeeny: “No. But I learned to worry differently. I learned to let the fear speak — and then tell it I was done listening.”

Host: The storm outside began to fade, leaving puddles that mirrored light like small galaxies on the street. The air felt clean, reborn.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what she meant — that fear is the center, and we just keep circling it because it feels familiar.”

Jeeny: “Yes. But you can step off the orbit. Anytime you want.”

Jack: “And then what?”

Jeeny: “Then you find out what peace sounds like.”

Jack: “And if peace is quiet?”

Jeeny: “Then you finally get to rest.”

Host: Jack’s hand relaxed, his shoulders lowering, his breathing evening out. For the first time all night, he looked at Jeeny — really looked — and something in his eyes softened.

Jack: “You always make it sound like peace is possible.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s just usually buried under noise.”

Jack: “Fear’s noise.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock struck midnight. The rain stopped completely, leaving the world glistening, renewed. Jeeny stood, buttoning her coat, her voice gentle, certain.

Jeeny: “Corrie was right, you know. Worry’s just the body’s way of mistaking thought for safety. But safety isn’t something you think your way into — it’s something you trust your way toward.”

Jack: “And trust begins with faith?”

Jeeny: “No. With release.”

Host: She turned to go, the doorbell chiming softly, the cold night air rushing in, carrying with it a smell of rain and renewal.

Jack watched her leave, then looked out the window, his reflection merging with the city lights, and for a moment, the chaos in his mind slowed — the wheel of worry pausing, its axis of fear quieting.

Host: The camera would pull back — the café glowing, the city alive, but Jack still for the first time in years.

And in that stillness, the echo of Corrie Ten Boom’s words lingered, clear and eternal:

“Worry is a cycle of inefficient thoughts whirling around a center of fear.”

Host:
And tonight, at last,
he had stepped off the wheel.