You are not in the worst moment. You are in something that might be harder than the worst moment, the long middle of it, where the acute edges have dulled but the weight hasn't lifted, and the exhaustion of carrying it has become its own separate burden.
You have managed this. You have done the work, the breathing, the therapy, the medication, the prayer, the trying. You have gotten up on the hard days and done what needed to be done. And you are tired in a way that a good night's sleep doesn't touch, because this kind of tired lives deeper than the body. It lives in the part of you that has been braced for a long time and doesn't know how to stop bracing.
There is a particular cruelty to chronic anxiety that doesn't get talked about enough, the way it doesn't just take the moments it's in, but gradually takes the energy you need for everything else. The capacity for joy gets thinner. Small things feel heavier than they should. You find yourself wondering if this is just what life is now, whether this is a season or a permanent condition, whether you'll ever feel like yourself again without the low hum of it underneath everything.
Those questions are allowed. They are honest. And they don't need answers right now, they just need to be set down somewhere other than inside you.
If you're at the place where you need to hand some of this off, even for a moment, you can request a prayer for anxiety, not to fix it, just to not be the only one holding it right now.
There is something in scripture written for people who have been at it a long time, not the people mid-sprint, but the ones who have been walking through something extended and are running low. The promise there isn't that the exhaustion won't come. It's that there is a source of renewal available that doesn't depend on what you have left. That you can draw from something that isn't depleted just because you are. If what you're running low on is something more fundamental than energy, if the reserves themselves are gone, there is a prayer for the place where strength looks like when yours is completely gone.
Surrender, in this context, isn't defeat. It isn't giving up on getting better or accepting that this is all there will ever be. It is something quieter and harder than fighting, it is the decision to stop white-knuckling it alone and let something larger than your own effort carry some of the weight. The hands that have been gripping so tightly, finally opening.
You don't have to keep managing this entirely by yourself. You don't have to perform okayness. You don't have to have a plan for getting through the rest of the week. You are allowed to come to the end of what you have and simply say: I'm tired. I've been at this a long time. I need to be held for a while instead of holding everything together. If part of what you're carrying is what the anxiety feels like at its worst hour, when sleep won't come and the loop won't stop, that belongs here too.
That is not weakness arriving. That is wisdom, the hard-won kind that only comes from having tried everything else first. And when the fight has gone on long enough that even rest feels out of reach, there is something available for the exhaustion of a mind that won't stop regardless of what you try.
Rest is not on the other side of anxiety being gone. Rest is available here, in the middle of it, in the act of releasing the fight for just this moment. You can pick it back up later if you need to. But you don't have to carry it through this moment. When you're ready to bring all of it, the exhaustion, the questions, the long middle, to prayer for anxiety, that is what this is here for.
Let it down. Just for now. You have been strong enough for long enough.