Anxiety is one of those words that means a hundred different things depending on who’s using it. A clinical disorder. A mood. A personality trait. A vague feeling that you don’t understand but desperately want to resist.
What if some forms of anxiety are more like a signal telling you something deeply true about yourself and the world?
Samir Chopra is a philosopher and the author of Anxiety: A Philosophical Guide. His argument is that anxiety isn’t just a malfunction or a disorder to be eliminated, but a structural feature of being human. We are finite, self-aware, future-oriented creatures, and anxiety is what it feels like to live under those conditions. The goal isn’t to cure anxiety so much as understand it well enough so that it stops ruling us.
I invited Chopra onto The Gray Area to talk about these ideas and what philosophy can and can’t do for people struggling with anxiety. As always, there’s much more in the full podcast, which drops every Monday and Friday, so listen to and follow us on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, Pandora, or wherever you find podcasts.
This interview has been edited for length and clarity.
The problem with the word “anxiety” is we use it to describe a lot of different things. Why is there so much confusion around the term?
There’s some disagreement, and there’s also a broad range of experiences that get bundled under the term. We have hundreds of words for these states: worry, stress, fear, and so on. “Anxiety,” as a term, is relatively new, more like an 18th- or 19th-century word that we’ve come to use across cultures. But the phenomenology it covers is wide.
There’s also a kind of turf war. Different disciplines claim authority over anxiety: philosophy, psychology, psychiatry. And that matters, because it affects who gets to treat it and who gets to speak about it as an expert.
In my book, I try for some definitional clarity, but early on, I more or less say that it’s hard to draw sharp boundaries here. The edges are fuzzy. I think we can make a useful distinction between anxiety and fear, and that’s enough to start.
How do you distinguish fear from anxiety?
One influential line comes from Freud: anxiety is fear without a specific object. You feel scared, but there isn’t something determinate right in front of you.
Think of driving to the mountains to go climbing. You wake up, and you’ve got the pit in your stomach, the nausea, the discomfort. Nothing concrete is threatening you. But you can anticipate what might happen: bad weather, getting lost, falling. Those possibilities haven’t taken determinate form yet. That’s anxiety.
Then you’re actually on the climb. You step across a chasm, your footing slips, and you could fall right now. That’s fear, because it has a concrete object.
Or you’re in the woods, and you’re uneasy about dangerous wildlife. That’s anxiety. Then you see the mountain lion on the trail, and your body reacts. That’s fear.
So fear has a clear object. Anxiety doesn’t. And in existentialist treatments, the indeterminate thing is often the future. The future hasn’t arrived yet, so it’s a natural home for anxiety.
So is anxiety basically fear of fear?
Yes. I sometimes call it anticipatory fear. I’m scared of being scared. I can imagine drowning even if I haven’t drowned. I can feel it in my body, the lungs pulling in water. Imagination fills in the blank. And I can feel the fear I’d feel if the thing happened. That’s anxiety.
Are we living in a uniquely anxious era?
Every age does want to anoint itself as uniquely anxious, but I do think our moment has distinctive features. We live under systems that shape our lives but are opaque to us. Technology and finance are huge forces. Most people don’t understand them, can’t control them, and yet these systems know a lot about us and influence us constantly.
So there’s a sense of being surrounded by power you don’t fully grasp, power that manipulates you. People have always confronted power, but in some ways it’s greater and more pervasive now.
We’re also more connected to each other’s fears. There’s social contagion. We know anxious children can come from anxious parents. But now our networks transmit anxiety at scale.
And we have engines of comparison. You’re exposed to other people’s lives constantly, in ways you weren’t before. That can fuel dissatisfaction.
It’s also true that we diagnose anxiety more, and we talk about it more, and we have treatments. That changes what counts as “anxiety” in public life. It’s not just that there may be more of it. We also name it more readily.
What can the Buddhists teach us about anxiety?
The heart of it is the diagnosis of why we suffer. There’s a concept often translated as dissatisfaction, sorrow, unhappiness. If you read descriptions of it, anxiety is in there. It’s the sense that something is off about existence.
Everything passes away. You can’t hold on to what you love. Things you build won’t last. Mortality is everywhere. That can produce a sense of meaninglessness.
The Buddha says our suffering is intensified by failures of understanding about what existence is like. One is impermanence: everything changes. Even what looks stable is in flux. Names are conveniences. We name objects as if they were fixed, but they aren’t. This sounds obvious, but not absorbing it deeply makes us unhappy.
Second is the idea that everything is connected. Nothing exists in isolation. That matters ethically too, because it implies your well-being is tied to others.
Third is what’s often called the no-self thesis. The idea that there isn’t an enduring, self-identical “I” that remains the same through all changes.
If you take these truths seriously, you create some distance from the conventions that trap you, like the obsession with possession, status, comparison, the constant project of shoring up the ego.
The existentialists are a big part of the book, and they have a very different approach to anxiety. How would you sum it up?
A starting point is that we aren’t born with a predetermined essence. There isn’t a fixed blueprint for what your life is supposed to be. You’re born into a world with a history. You’re dropped into a particular time, place, language, culture. But what you make of that is up to you. Your life gets shaped through choices and actions.
That creates anxiety because the future is unformed. Your life is unformed. You realize your choices will make you who you are, and they’ll also shape the world around you. That responsibility can be dizzying.
It’s not just that we have to make choices. It’s that we’re responsible for those choices. And we don’t like that, do we?
Exactly. There isn’t someone behind you to take the heat. You own it.
Everyone says they want freedom. But freedom seems to generate a lot of anxiety. Would we still want it if we fully understood that?
We profess love for freedom, but we often run from it. And that has political implications. People move toward systems that promise security and certainty.
Friedrich Nietzsche anticipated this. He says we kill God, meaning we kill metaphysical certainty. The price is uncertainty, and many people can’t tolerate it. So they run into new idols, like nationalism, totalitarianism, any structure that promises safety.
Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Grand Inquisitor says that people don’t want freedom. They want miracles, magic, an instruction manual for living, with guaranteed results.
But they also want the illusion that they’re free. That’s the twist. There’s also the basic fact of being self-conscious. It’s hard to imagine a beetle or an alligator having anxiety because they aren’t asking what their purpose is, or what happens after death.
I think it’s broadly right. We live in finite time, and we know it’s finite. That’s crucial. And we’re concerned with the future. We’re curious, but not omniscient. We want to know, but we can’t know. That gap generates anxiety.
This is why philosophy and anxiety go together. People think philosophy comes from wonder, but wonder is paired with terror. Inquiry can be thrilling and frightening at once. Once you start asking questions, you might not like the answers.
Albert Camus talks about “the absurd” as the clash between our need for meaning and the world’s refusal to provide it. That feels close to this. He describes it as the moment where the stage set collapses, and you realize the story that keeps you grounded can slip away.
And even if it’s not an illusion, it’s not underwritten by anything divine. That’s the point. It’s all human, all-too-human. These arrangements we make together, that structure our lives, it’s all historically determined.
Let’s jump to psychoanalysis. Freud is the most famous figure here. What do psychoanalysts understand about anxiety that maybe the Buddhists or existentialists don’t?
The first is that Freud really emphasizes the social. We’re anxious in part because we live in societies with other people. That’s central in Civilization and Its Discontents, and it shows up throughout his work.
Second, Freud’s mature view of anxiety ties it to loss, specifically loss of love. Freud offered multiple theories over his life. He eventually settled on a view where anxiety is linked to the fear of re-experiencing a fundamental loss that once felt traumatic.
In earlier models, he treated anxiety as undischarged libido, or as the product of conflict between parts of the mind. Later, he focused on how early attachments shape later fears. As you grow, you lose certain forms of love and security. That loss leaves a trace. Then later situations that threaten status, acceptance, attachment, can re-trigger that older fear.
Yes. Freud calls it signal anxiety. You rush to respond to a text because you fear losing something, and what’s underwriting it is older loss and older fear resurfacing.
Freud also says part of growing up is letting go of the hope that the world will love you the way a good childhood did. If you expect the world to provide that level of comfort and security, you set yourself up for disappointment.
Or you can become neurotic and project all your stuff onto other people!
I don’t want to end without asking about treatment. Where do therapy and medication fit? How do you distinguish clinical anxiety from existential anxiety?
Therapy can bring you into contact with what existentialists call “ultimate concerns”: death, freedom, isolation, meaninglessness. Everyone has them, even if we don’t name them. Therapy can help articulate them and connect them to your everyday anxieties.
Clinical terms usually track severity and dysfunction. It’s about to what extent anxiety interferes with your life. If you want to do X but can’t because anxiety blocks you, that’s a different situation than ordinary existential unease. If it makes you unable to parent, to work, to relate, that’s serious.
But I don’t think there’s a rigid line. Existential anxieties can rise up and take particular forms depending on your history and circumstances. The “basement dwellers,” as I call them, show up in different disguises for different people.
Medication might be warranted when people are incapacitated. But it should give us pause too. We often medicate people so they can function within the political economy we’ve built. That doesn’t mean medication is wrong. It means we should think carefully about what we’re doing when we medicalize something that may be a constitutive part of being human.
People need to function and be present in their lives. But also, anxiety can be a signal and you don’t always want to completely silence it. What I hear you saying is that there’s no one-size-fits-all approach.
Right. And there’s wisdom in these traditions.
From Buddhism, accepting flux, loosening the grip on the self, cultivating compassion. There’s also a practical point here, which is that service matters. Modern thinkers sometimes call it “unself.” When you’re attending to others, you’re not fixated on yourself. That inner lens that’s always focused on me and my fears turns outward.
It’s why volunteering or caregiving can reduce anxiety. It’s also why beauty helps. Art, nature, the sublime. When you’re absorbed, you’re not trapped in self-obsession.
In the end, what can philosophy do to help people with anxiety, and what can’t it do?
Philosophy won’t cure anxiety. But it can help you understand it and understand the conditions of existence that produce it. It can change your relationship to it.
You’re going to be anxious. But you don’t have to be anxious about being anxious. Once you see why anxiety is there, you can stop making yourself pointlessly unhappy.
Suffering is part of life. Pointless suffering is what we should try to reduce. Nietzsche says you can’t eliminate suffering, but you can stop moralizing it.
As a philosophical counselor, what practical advice do you have for people struggling with anxiety?
The single most important thing is to cultivate personal relationships. Cherish the love you have. Maintain human connection. I’ve come to think the fear of death is often the fear of losing love.
Beyond that, meditation can also help. Physical activity helps because we’re embodied beings. Spend time outdoors. Put yourself in contact with things that feel larger, more timeless, more beautiful than your private worries.
