My psychiatrist squirmed in his chair, crossing and re-crossing his legs.

“Can you tell me how you feel?” he said.

His discomfort probably wouldn’t have been noticeable to anyone else, but I’d been seeing him for so many years, I could tell he was on edge. Normally, he was the epitome of calm. His voice was smooth and reassuring; nothing I said ever fazed him. Until now.

I struggled to describe what was going on with me. “It’s like a nameless, faceless dread,” I said. “I know something horrible is coming; I just don’t know what. But it’s out there, watching me, waiting for its moment.”

“And then what will happen?”

Now I was the one who was squirming. “You keep on asking me questions, but I don’t have the words to answer them. I don’t know how to articulate it. Please, can’t you just make it stop?”

He sighed. “Terri, you know we’ve tried every drug that’s available.”

And there it was, that terrible thing I knew was certain to come: abandonment. My doctor had given up on me.

I couldn’t understand it. He’d stuck by me through the worst of my bipolar madness: the manic spending sprees that often made me unable to pay his bill; the hypersexuality that manifested in unwelcome fits of flirtatiousness toward him; the soul-sucking depression that threatened to drag down everything it touched into its private sewer. He was a rock, my rock—the one bulwark against insanity I was sure would never crumble.

And now my bulwark was sitting across from me, looking like he couldn’t wait for our hour to end.

The problem was, I’d never been this anxious before. Sure, I’d been troubled and upset and deeply forlorn, even at times suicidal. But chronic anxiety of this magnitude hadn’t been part of my overall schema. Several months past, it had snuck up on me and swallowed me whole, and the world had become a different place.

I wasn’t episodically ill anymore, the way I’d been when I was “just” bipolar. Now I was constantly, unrelentingly, incessantly worried—about this, that, and the other thing, and mostly about nothing at all, which was infinitely worse because I couldn’t get anybody else to understand why I was so distressed.

My doctor wasn’t the only one to be detrimentally affected by my condition. My boyfriend at the time found me “impossible to be with for more than 30 minutes.” I tried, I really did, to calm down and pretend that everything was OK. Sometimes I succeeded, but I couldn’t keep up the facade for long. Before I knew it, I’d be jiggling my legs, tapping my fingers, rocking restlessly back and forth. Anxiety became a third party in our relationship, so palpable and present we could have set an extra chair for it at the table.

I’d often assumed there could be nothing worse than major depression; and, of course, you can’t really compare the two disorders—they’re both a living hell. Yet, at least with depression, science has spoken, and there are plausible theories of origin: a chemical imbalance in the brain, perhaps, or systemic inflammation in the body.

But with anxiety, while one can always find some external cause to pin it on (politics, climate change, aging, money), that’s just circumstantial stress. It’s not the real underlying problem, which defies simple definition. Is it genetic? Maybe. Chemical? Possibly. Environmental? That, too.

I find this lack of scientific certainty about anxiety’s causality amazing, given how prevalent it is. In fact, it’s the most common mental health condition in America; roughly one-third of U.S. adults—one in three of us—will have some form of anxiety disorder in their lifetime. According to the National Institute of Mental Health, “That means that even if you don’t have anxiety yourself, you still have a pretty high chance of living with someone who [does].”

I’d always thought depression was the most contagious mental illness because it’s so hard to be happy around someone who is consumed by gloom. But chronic anxiety—at least in my own experience—seems to arouse an even stronger reaction. I wouldn’t call it a “sympathetic” response, because nothing about the way other people were acting felt in any way soothing to me—quite the opposite. If even my psychiatrist, who was so skilled at not showing his emotions, couldn’t hide his discomfort in my presence, I could only imagine how much I disturbed less highly trained people.

At last, in a weird way, I got lucky. After several more months, my anxiety morphed into a full-blown manic episode, which ultimately responded to an antipsychotic medication. When I came down from the mania, I wasn’t anxious in that same unbearable way anymore.

My experience gave me an insight I wouldn’t otherwise possess. I learned the hard way that, for whatever reason, chronic anxiety often triggers pronounced discomfort in other people. It’s social stigma of a different sort, and while it may not be conscious or intentional, it’s still very painful for the person on the receiving end. Anxiety is difficult enough to go through on its own, without having to deal with others’ negative reactions.

So, what can we do to lessen the suffering, both of the anxious person and the family, friends, loved ones, and caregivers who may be triggered by the condition? First, we need to bring all the compassion we can muster to individuals living with chronic anxiety, because they may not be receiving it from the rest of the world. Second, in a calm moment, we need to discuss the reality of anxiety contagion, so that everyone is prepared for the feelings that may arise when a panic attack or anxious episode occurs. Discussing coping techniques ahead of time—like practicing mindfulness and setting boundaries—can benefit everyone concerned.

We may not be able to fully prevent anxiety contagion, but through education, kindness, and awareness, we can minimize its spread—not just for those who suffer, but for all those who suffer along with them.

If you or someone you love is contemplating suicide, seek help immediately. For help 24/7, dial 988 for the 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline, or reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting TALK to 741741. To find a therapist near you, visit the Psychology Today Therapy Directory.