As teh ghostly afterglow of the Zoom call faded, I found myself marooned in the eerie calm that followed. Everyone’s cameras were still on, a gallery of mildly distracted faces, some scrolling phones, others lost in the wilds of the internet. The meeting had officially ended three minutes ago, yet nobody had made the digital dash for the exit. My cursor hovered over the “Leave Meeting” button like a nervous bird, twitching.

Did I say something wrong?

Whizzing back through the last fifteen minutes in my mind, like someone frantically spooling through a awful film to find the plot twist, I hunted for the moment where I’d inevitably put my foot in it. The quarterly numbers presentation, the slightly alarming dip in engagement, my voice doing that thing where it sounds like it’s trying to sell ya a used car rather than explain data trends. Then Marcus threw in that question about our methodology, adn me—

Oh, crumpets. I talked over Diane.

It wasn’t a malicious interruption; Diane’s voice was so soft, barely a whisper over the digital airwaves, and I was already halfway through my spiel, riding the wave of faux confidence. By the time I realised she was speaking, I’d barreled past her words like a runaway trolley.

She retreated into a nod and that tight, polite smile that could mean anything from “I understand” to “I will feed you to the crows at the earliest opportunity.”

There we all were, trapped in this digital purgatory, likely firing off texts beneath the webcam’s gaze about my chronic inability to zip it. They’re probably crafting an anthology of “Times We Wished Alex Would Just Shush.”

My cheeks were aflame.

They’re waiting for me to leave so they can dissect my every flaw.

The thought slunk in like a cat through an open window, and I clicked “Leave Meeting” with the force of a thousand suns - then slammed my laptop shut as if it were an ancient tome of curses.

Upon standing too quickly, the room took a brief, whimsical spin. I began pacing, auditioning for the role of “nervous wreck,” my steps keeping time with the internal chorus of self-accusations: Self-centred. Boisterous. Inconsiderate. A human foghorn.

My phone buzzed - a text, then another. Oh, the horror. It had to be Marcus with a gentle nudge about “team dynamics” or possibly Diane, deciding that today was the day she’d tell me off for talking over her not just this once but as a serialized drama spanning months.

I’d botched it all up. Again. Echoes of past reprimands played in my head - too intense, too loud, a living, breathing vuvuzela.

The phone buzzed relentlessly. By message number three, I admitted defeat, sinking into the couch like a sunken ship finding its place at the sea’s floor. I pressed my palms into my eyes, willing the galaxy of pressure stars to recede.

Mental note from therapy echoed through: “When spiraling, distinguish between what you know and what you fear.”

Facts versus fears - right.

Fact: I steamrolled over Diane. Awkward silence ensued.

Fear: Concocted an entire opera of workplace disdain in my mind.

Hands trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, I grabbed the phone.

Marcus: Hey, ta for walking us through those numbers. Much clearer now.

Diane: Could you send me that article you mentioned about engagement metrics? Sounds useful for my project.

Marcus: Also, we’re thinking happy hour next Thursday if you’re up for it. Virtual or real-world, TBD.

I blinked. Once. Twice. Were these not the coded messages of colleagues plotting my social exile?

They didn’t despise me.

Diane actually wanted my input.

Drinks? With me?

I inhaled a lungful of air, feeling it reach the forgotten corners of my ribcage. The vise around my chest began its dead slow unwinding.

Ah, rejection sensitivity, my old foe. My brain’s favourite hobby: leaping to catastrophic conclusions at the faintest whiff of social peril. It isn’t logical, and it certainly isn’t helpful, reacting to shadows as if they were monsters under the bed.

I tapped out replies, fingers still jittery. Sent Diane the article and a couple more for brilliant measure. Confirmed with Marcus - Thursday works, virtual or otherwise.

As the panic retreated, it left a residue of exhaustion, but also a flicker of hope. This cycle would likely wheel around again, with my brain sending up flares at the slightest hint of trouble. But just maybe, next time, I’d remember this unassuming Tuesday. The day I was utterly convinced the council of co-workers had convened, with me as the main agenda.

And they hadn’t.