The Anxiety No-One Sees

I was twenty-one and convinced that if I stopped pushing, the dream would evaporate.

Professional musical theatre. The West End. Not a vague idea — a fixed point. I wasn’t letting go of it.

One of the first open West End auditions was held in Glasgow. Five thousand people turned up. I travelled north for it, long journey, little sleep, cold air biting through a queue that seemed endless. A line wrapping around an old theatre that smelled of dust, velvet, and history.

I remember the architecture more than the fear at first. The opulence. The ceiling. The weight of it all. Those buildings make you feel small in the best and worst way at the same time.

I was lucky — I went with a friend. That helped. On the surface, we were just two young performers waiting our turn.

Inside, my adrenaline was doing hoola hoops.

I did well. I got a recall.

That’s when it changed.

Over the next several months there were more auditions. London. Actual West End stages. Standing where I’d imagined standing for years. The dream wasn’t theoretical anymore.

It was close.

That proximity did something to me.

Excited doesn’t cover it. I was lit up. But underneath that was something tighter. A quiet internal interrogation that never stopped.

Can I actually do this? This isn’t local theatre. This is the West End. Am I about to be exposed?

I knew I was talented. That wasn’t false modesty. I knew I could perform. But knowing you’re good and believing you belong in that arena are two different things.

Outwardly, I was steady. Focused. Professional. I didn’t let anyone see the internal negotiation. No one cracked the armour because I didn’t offer a crack.

I trusted no one but myself at that point. Not dramatically — just by default. I shared very little. It felt safer to be self-contained.

The closer it became to real, the more I scanned for threats.

Will something derail this? Will I make one mistake and watch it disappear? Do I deserve to be standing here?

People would have seen ambition.

They wouldn’t have seen the constant recalculating. The vigilance. The way I rehearsed confidence internally before walking into a room.

The anxiety no one saw wasn’t weakness.

It was the cost of wanting something that big and realising it might actually be within reach.