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Worry is the mental process of anticipating possible troubles, setbacks, or risks—and trying to manage them through continuous thought. It’s distinct from anxiety, though the two states overlap. Worry tends to be more specific and verbal: we can usually put it into words, such as “I’m worried about missing my flight” or “I’m worried about the results of that exam.” Anxiety, on the other hand, is broader. It involves an emotional and physiological response—racing heart, sweaty palms, tense muscles—and often lacks a clearly nameable cause. While we can remain relatively functional when worrying (performing daily tasks, maintaining our routine), anxiety can feel more like a system‐wide alarm, activating deep bodily stress responses and pushing us to hypervigilance or avoidance.
Worry can serve a purpose. Because we can imagine future possibilities, we guard against unfavorable outcomes by mentally rehearsing what might go wrong. We then address these scenarios by planning, seeking information, or taking other preventive steps. This is productive worry, and it can motivate us to study harder before an exam, create contingency plans, or make thoughtful decisions when facing potential difficulties.
There is also unproductive worry, which leads nowhere and simply loops in our minds, intensifying unease. A parent might be unable to sleep until a teenager comes home safely, running every dire scenario over and over in their head. Someone else may compulsively check whether the stove is off, even after verifying it multiple times, because some underlying anxiety won’t let go. This form of worry takes on a ritualistic, even magical, quality: deep down, we suspect repeating the thought or action might ward off disaster. Yet it brings no real resolution.
Worry can be exhausting, linking deep discomfort with uncertainty. Humans are wired to prefer control over situations whenever possible. Consequently, worry can feel like an attempt at control, even if it’s ineffective or irrational. We believe that by focusing on potential catastrophes, we won’t be caught off‐guard—and sometimes that’s true. But very often, it traps us in repetitive thinking with no plan or relief.
Holding the tension—means resisting the urge to quell worry prematurely by frantically “doing something” (even if that action is irrelevant). Instead, try to sit with the uncomfortable feeling and reflect: Is there anything I can actually do right now? If yes, plan the step and act. If not, allow the uncertainty to remain a part of life, trusting that you can adapt if events unfold in challenging ways. This contrasts with the well‐known image of the Sword of Damocles: living under a constant threat, hanging by a fragile thread, which can breed immobilizing fear. Yet leaders, parents, and countless everyday people must learn to function despite such possibilities. Worry often arises in that space between fearing a grim outcome and not knowing if it will happen—and we can’t always “fix” it.
Reaching out for help can break the isolating effect of worry. When we admit, “I’m worried about my job security,” or “I’m worried about whether I’ll be able to pay my bills,” we invite empathy or practical advice from another person—rather than continuing alone in a swirl of repetitive thoughts. Openness often calms the mind, giving us a different vantage point on the problem and letting us see how others have navigated similar issues.
From a depth perspective, worry can be an invitation to look deeper into psyche. We may be preoccupied with minor issues—like repeatedly checking if our front door is locked—because our mind wants to avoid a more pressing inner conflict. For example, focusing on trivial uncertainties might keep us from noticing deeper anxiety about a career crossroads or an unspoken fear of failure. Consciously examining these patterns, aided by dream work, can surface neglected aspects of our lives. A repeated, irrational worry could be a stand‐in for something in our unconscious that is clamoring for attention.
Not all worry points to profound internal dilemmas. Sometimes, it is a response to realistic everyday problems. We can ask ourselves: “Is there an actual, solvable issue here?” If so, worry can spark genuine problem‐solving which can be helpful—like reviewing safer driving tips when a newly licensed teenager heads out alone. If we realize there’s nothing more we can do, continuing to ruminate just erodes our peace of mind.
An ancient tale about Solomon’s ring—engraved with “This too shall pass”— speaks to the temporary nature of emotional states. When we’re in the grip of worry, it can feel permanent, yet time and experience remind us that most concerns fade or change with new developments. This doesn’t invalidate the reality of fear, but it helps keep it in proportion. Even if a dire outcome does occur, human beings find ways to cope and adapt, often emerging with invaluable lessons.
Worry reflects our struggle with uncertainty, our wish to foresee danger, and our tendency to equate fretting with preparedness. When it spurs real solutions, it proves useful. But it drains our energy and masks deeper issues when it becomes cyclical and unfocused. Learning to hold the tension—to differentiate between problems we can address and ambiguity, we must accept—helps us navigate daily stresses, build resilience, and transform repetitive unease into a clear and often shared path forward.
Here’s the dream we analyze:
I am traveling with 3 other people in some kind of vehicle, and I am riding in the back seat; the driver is driving on the right side (although I live in the US and have never lived in a country that drives on the right). The two people in the front seat work at the place where I am the Executive Director. They have friction in their relationship with one another. In this dream, though, that seems resolved. We are passing through a narrow passage, and I decided it’s best if we walk, so I get out and down and have bare feet. I am comfortable with this until someone else points out that they are doing construction here, and it might be dangerous to walk in the sawdust. I look for shoes but only find a pair of Victorian-looking booties that are too tight and have heels, which is inappropriate and awkward for this short passage. Suddenly, the dream changes, and I’m in a store where everything is on sale. I realized that all my personal clothes and shoes were there and had been removed. I understand it is because I have done something wrong, and I accept that and go to find them to take them with me. I found a room that has been cleared out except for a few articles of very nice, high-quality vintage designer clothes. I throw as much as I can into bags that lie around and hurry to leave with what is left of my belongings. As I leave, three security guards have since closed the store, turned the lights out, and are waiting for me. I make a run for it into the hallway and wait around the corner to try and knock one of them out with a telephone receiver. At this point, it becomes kind of slapstick, and I understand it’s all a joke/just theater.
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Thank you for reminding us of the practice of holding the tension of the opposites. And too the sharing of Wendell Barry’s poem. I wish that place of refuge for us all.