I can’t scratch my mother’s back when she asks. My short, unsightly nails and the peeling cuticles are the aftermath of my anxiety. It’s this endless loop, a cycle that hypnotizes you when you’re trapped in heightened stress. It paralyzes me. No matter what products I try, I can’t stop. All I can do is bite, pick, and peel at my hands. The anxiety piles up in my stomach, getting reabsorbed and becoming the nails I pick at again.