SOME people say that nerves are an important and integral part of every performance or public speaking engagement – I used to believe that those people were lying to make me feel better.

Ever since I was a child, I’ve always found speaking in front of people to be one of the most nerve-wracking, nausea-inducing acts possible, and even as an adult it doesn’t seem to be getting any easier.

I’m not writing this to complain about anxiety, though I must say that it’s exceptionally cathartic, but because I was recently asked by a much younger performer how I’ve managed to get rid of the nerves I feel before going on stage.

The short answer is that I haven't, and the long answer would be the same, just said a lot more slowly for dramatic effect.

Whether it’s taking an exam, talking on the phone to someone you don’t know, performing on stage or ordering food in a restaurant, anxiety often feels like an uninvited, clammy hand wrapped tightly around your neck.

It’s the misplaced remnants of some vestigial instinct for self-preservation, the last gasp of the fight or flight response that’s somehow got lost in translation, and it sucks. There’s nothing worse than having an experience ruined, postponed, or cancelled due to anxiety, and the worst part of it is you often end up blaming yourself, which only serves to make the anxiety worse.

I first started performing as a very shy eight-year-old doing Burns’ poetry recitations. My legs would shake when I’d go on stage to the point it was visible to people in the crowd, so I started walking around while performing. Enough people commented on my ‘unique and engaging performance style’ that I realised I’d been able to successfully trick people into thinking I was confident when inside I was a complete mess. This trickery continued as when I started writing and performing my own poetry, I had the small mercy of online events to soften the blow – nobody can see you sweat behind a screen.

Last year, however, I was asked to present an awards show, which was my very first experience having that level of responsibility on stage. There was no screen to mask my nerves and no room to walk about. I was in the middle of my degree and working in a restaurant and starting my career as a writer, so it really was the straw that made the camel have a wee bit of a breakdown.

My entire body erupted in stress-eczema, my period stopped for a few months, and I wasn’t eating or sleeping properly. Stress doesn’t just manifest mentally, and often the physical effects can take months or even years to recover from.

In therapy, I got told to imagine the worst-case scenario, the heinous outcome of literally everything going wrong. I had a head start on that particular lesson, as catastrophising has somehow always formed part of the continuous dialogue I have with my brain.

If it can go wrong, I’ve considered it. The stage could collapse, I could’ve shown up a day too early, the audience might hate me … the list goes on and on and on till my performance is over. I think my therapist had the very best of intentions, but they somehow overlooked the fact that while most people can see the sheer ludicrousness of catastrophising, the anxious brain often cannot. Post-performance I can always see that there was no need for me to be so worried about things going wrong, but until I’m firmly perched upon the comfy, safe ledge of hindsight, wrapped in a blanket of healthy perspective, that level of relaxation is unfortunately outwith my grasp.

I was recently lucky enough to be asked to attend the New Tricks group in North Lanarkshire, and I’m so glad I did. The pre-performance nerves were in full swing, and I felt my body and brain conspiring against me once again to go through the same tingly, shaky, sweaty nonsense as usual.

I want to use this experience to offer some advice to the young performer, and indeed to anyone else reading who struggles with anxiety, because it’s a method I’ve used a few times and it seems to be working out well for me so far.

The first thing I did was make someone aware straight away that I was nervous. If it’s a business meeting, tell a colleague, if it’s an exam, tell a classmate or teacher, if you don’t feel comfortable sharing with others, consider writing down or saying aloud to yourself how you are feeling.

Saying the words “I am anxious” isn’t an expression of weakness or lack of professionalism, and making it known to yourself and others can have multiple benefits. Often, acknowledging the feeling can help your body to realise that it’s not in any danger, and can help to take the edge off the nerves, but letting people know how you’re feeling also gives them the opportunity to reassure you.

In this case I let the person who was going to be interviewing me know that I was extremely nervous about forgetting my words and asked if I would be able to refer to my notes while performing.

Immediately, he said that was perfectly fine, reassured me that he too likes to refer to notes while performing and asked if there was anything else he could do to make the performance less stressful for me.

To anyone who feels that sharing your anxiety in a professional or academic environment would make you a burden or difficult to deal with – there is no shame in asking for spaces to be made more accessible to you, and you are worthy of any effort it takes to make you feel as comfortable as possible.

On the flip side, if you find yourself in a position to make someone else feel less anxious, meeting their anxiety with kindness and accommodation can go a long way in alleviating nerves. Making people feel more comfortable enables them to perform to the best of their abilities, and one kind voice can often help transform anxiety into excitement, which can make all the difference. To the young person who asked me how I managed to get rid of my nerves, I hope knowing I didn’t have to helps you feel that you don’t need to either.

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