Neve Smith – Finding Humour in the Noise of an Anxious Mind
Poetry has a unique ability to take experiences that can feel isolating and make them instantly recognisable. For this edition of Liverpool Noise’s 52 for ’26 Poetry Project, Neve Smith does exactly that with It’s Not Spiders, a poem that transforms the private turbulence of anxiety into something vivid, compelling and deeply human.
At first glance, the poem appears disarmingly playful. Smith adopts a conversational, almost stand-up style, peppering the narrative with humour, sharp observations and everyday scenarios that many readers will recognise. A trip to Tesco, a train journey, a bath at the end of the day, all become stages upon which the mind performs its relentless worst-case scenarios. The humour lands because it feels authentic, but it also serves a deeper purpose, revealing the exhausting logic of a brain permanently stuck in survival mode.
What gives It’s Not Spiders its power is the voice at its centre. Breathless, self-aware and often darkly funny, the speaker invites us into a world where every minor event carries the possibility of catastrophe. The poem moves at the speed of anxious thought itself, piling fear upon fear until the ordinary becomes extraordinary and the mundane feels perilous.
Yet beneath the wit lies a poignant exploration of vulnerability. Smith captures the emotional contradictions that often accompany anxiety: the fear of death alongside the struggle of simply getting through the day, the desire for peace alongside the inability to trust it when it arrives. The result is a poem that never asks for sympathy but earns empathy through its honesty.
As part of our 52 for ’26 Poetry Project, It’s Not Spiders showcases poetry’s capacity to illuminate experiences that are frequently hidden behind everyday smiles and casual conversations. By turns humorous, unsettling and moving, Neve Smith’s poem offers a candid glimpse into an internal landscape that many readers may recognise, whether they have lived it themselves or witnessed it in those around them.
It’s Not Spiders
If you asked me, “What’s your biggest fear?”
I’d probably say spiders, or heights, or deer .
I’d laugh it off, pretend it’s fun
But truth?
The truth is …
It’s my catastrophic brain… on a speed run.
It’s not bugs, or ghosts, or a gun ,
It’s my mind, screaming “you won’t make it through life.”
It’s my inner monologue in survival mode,
Plotting 102 ways I could die when I wake up
Not just could, but might.
No, actually, probably will.
Because why else would I feel this chill down my spine
Before a simple walk? Before I leave the house
I haven’t even moved and I’m already stressed out.
Going to Tesco?
That’s a full-blown operation.
Like I’m infiltrating a foreign nation.
I rehearse conversations. I check my route.
Check 10 times they are not closed.
And if they’re out of oat milk?
I might just compute a meltdown.
Before I go, I check the news.
Terror attack? Global flu?
Random stabbing down the road from you?
Cool. I’ll stay in.
Anxiety wins round two.
Because if anything, anything, could be a sign.
If I breathe weird? Tumour.
If I trip? My spine
If my heart skips once, or twice, or three…
I’ve written a full eulogy, mentally.
See, I’m not “a bit dramatic” i catastrophise for sport.
I overanalyse more than a courtroom report.
If there’s 1% chance of doom?
I’ll bet on it.
Lay the odds.
Build a full-blown plot from it.
Getting in the bath?
I might drown.
My hair straighteners?
Could burn the house down.
Crossing the street?
Struck on sight.
Maybe by a truck , or lightning or even bad vibes
I’ve tried to sleep
But my brain doesn’t rest.
It plays Russian roulette with my chest.
“What if you stop breathing in the night?”
Cool. Sweet dreams. Guess I’ll sleep upright.
Getting on a train?
It’ll crash.
Or derail.
Or someone onboard’s about to inhale
Their final breath right next to me.
Should I learn CPR or just stay home and never leave
Every plan has a plot twist.
Every joy comes with a list
Of possible hazards, risks, and regret.
You might think I’ll be okay when I realise nothing has gone wrong but No.
No because Then I just worry about why I’m not upset.
Like why am I okay?
What’s the catch?
Is calm the setup for a panic attack?
Because even good days feel like bait.
A silent warning from the hands of fate.
And yet…
For someone who’s begged not to live,
Who’s stood at the edge, too broken to give,
It makes no sense that I fear death so hard
But I do.
It hits like a deep like a scar
Or a breath I missed.
Or a future I’ll never get to exist.
So yeah if you ask me what scares me the most?
It’s not spiders, or ghosts, or even burnt toast.
It’s not sharks or planes
It’s my own brain.
The traitor.
The trap.
That thinks I’ll just snap.
It’s waking up every day on red alert,
Knowing full well that nothing’s actually hurt
But feeling it anyway.
Living like prey.
Reading every shadow like a signed death delay.
I don’t want to live in fear,
But I don’t know how to stop.
I try to breathe,
But it tightens like a lock.
I try to smile,
But my chest is tight.
I try to laugh,
But I’m planning how I’d survive the night.
I’m tired of it
And I’m scared to be tired.
I’m tired of being scared,
And that fear is rewired
Into every move,
Every beat.
When your brain cries wolf,
You forget how to play.
So no my biggest fear’s not the dark.
It’s not snakes, or heights, or if I lose a eyelash
It’s my own mind
That tells me I’ll die today.
That turns breakfast into a funeral buffet.
And maybe that sounds strange,
Or a little bit much
But until you’ve panicked just because you have to leave the house
Until you’ve seen death in your morning toast,
You don’t know what is like
To fear your own ghost.
NEVE SMITH
