Panic tightens your chest. You can taste it in your mouth and feel it in your gut, a wrenching pulling. Your heart is beating, and your head is pounding, and crying seems like a gut reaction to almost anything. Your hands are shaking, tremors in your personal emotional earthquake, and thoughts spin like they’ve been sucked up by a tornado and flung across the plains. Breaths come in pants, heaving, gulping, gasping, slurping up air like it might escape from your grasp, a hand snatched out over the ledge to save you from falling. If you cry, the tears roll seamlessly, silently, and oddly, quickly, as if your body can’t handle crying on top of everything else. When panic grips you with its fist, control melts like butter.
I apologize if this isn’t super accurate; I generally don’t get panic attacks, but this is what my occasional freak-out feels like.