Terrorism and the Rise of Depression and Anxiety in Generation Y

Aside from a very long, unproductive lunch break, all day long I have been either helping students write their papers, or trying to figure out how the hell to write my own.  Contained in a miniature study room with no windows to the outside world for hours on end, I drudge through my academic misery only hoping that some sort of anxiety will trigger my 'fight or flight' and help me finish this damn assignment.  Alas, this is unlikely anytime before 11 PM, as I am obviously happily blogging a story about my entrapment, an evocation of some unanticipated anxiety, and finally my release, from that fucking study room.  

In said room, one student and I were discussing feasible arguments for his paper on the prevalent diagnosis of depression and anxiety in young americans.  He was using an article which suggested several possibilities, including sensationalist media, rise in criminal activity and terrorism.  We were discussing the social effects of 9/11, and debating whether or not he felt like it was a good argument.  After all, no one will ever forget 9/11, but is it really something on which we are constantly focused?  Neither of us seemed to think so, and as I was saying something to the effect of, "How often do we actually allow the possibility of a terrorist attack to dictate our actions?" (implying that I thought this idea was bogus), the emergency lights in the building began to pulsate beams of silver light, like a bad remake of 'Saturday Night Fever'.  Frozen by confusion, we sat still in our chairs as over the PA system, a male voice (like that of a pissed-off principle at the end of the day) repeats:

"PLEASE CALMLY, QUIETLY AND QUICKLY EVACUATE THE BUILDING USING THE NEAREST EXIT DOOR.  DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS, AND EVACUATE THE BUILDING, I REPEAT, DO NOT USE THE ELEVATORS."  

I (metaphorically) shit myself.  I do not think I have moved that fast since I ran track in college, and definitely not in 3 inch heels.  My heart was beating at an incredible rate, faster than a bunny rabbits, I bet.  (Their hearts beat so freakin' fast, FYI)  It was 22 degrees outside, and I was sweating.  While most people stood near the doors, I walked about thirty feet away from the building and stood by myself, watching the fire trucks drive up on the pedestrian street.  Of course the fat dopey firemen walk in and determine that there is no present danger, probably some bored idiot with a Zippo somewhere.  We all go back inside, and all is well again in the world.  Other than the fact that I needed a bourbon and a xanax.  

This is all after the previously mentioned debate, in which I determined that the idea of terrorism as an influence on anxiety was silliness.  I was obviously wrong.  It is remarkable what you store in your subconscious, and even more so the timing of all the crazy things that happen in our world.