I suffer from anxiety.  I like my feet on the ground.  Flying requires gin.
During my trip to Greece riding on mountain roads without guardrails generated one moderate anxiety attack--that thanks to the understanding of friends was averted just minutes after it began. T. taught me how to wrap my thumb and index fingers. Fellow writers put their hands on my shoulders when the road got dicey. T. offered to let me out of the van when turning around on a narrow road was required.
I am terrified of falling. Out of the sky. Off the edge.
When I flew with Mr. Ex, he would take a Tylenol p.m. & and fall asleep before the plane took off. No touching. No talking.
Once I had a bad anxiety attack on a plane with M. She talked me through it. "You can do this," she said. And then she just talked while I cried and sweated. There was no gin because the flight attendants had to be belted in during a storm.
I'm in the air right now. It's kind of turbulent. The pilot told us he's trying to find the "soft spot" through the weather.
That's what I crave. The soft spot. Human hands. Kind words.

Photo content courtesy of L. Y.'s notebook with info provided by T.