Much Ado About Something (Or Nothing)

A Tragecomedy in Two Acts About OCD, Anxiety, and the Search for Certainty

By Tom Kurtz

Act I: The Fellow in the Waiting Room

OCD, Anxiety, and the Peculiar Business of Trying to Feel Better

A chance meeting between two strangers reveals the unexpected comfort  of discovering you're not alone in your struggles.

There were two people sitting in a therapist's waiting room, which is ordinarily not a place where anybody expects to meet an especially captivating person. Waiting rooms are designed to discourage intimacy. There are chairs placed at diplomatic distances, magazines nobody has deliberately read since 2017, and usually a small machine producing noises intended to prevent you from hearing whatever the person behind the door is saying about his mother.

One was a man who had been coming for some time. I'll call him Jack. The other was a woman who appeared to be new. We'll call her Judy.

Judy was bouncing her right leg, examining the clock, and occasionally checking her phone, although it had not made a sound in the previous thirty seconds.

Jack noticed.

“Anxiety?” he asked.

Judy looked over. “Is it that obvious?”

“No. Could be jazz.”

She stopped bouncing her leg, which immediately made her more conscious of wanting to bounce it.

“Don't stop on my account,” Jack said. “I've been coming here long enough to know that trying not to be anxious is one of the more reliable ways of becoming anxious.”

Judy watched him reach for a magazine on the table, straighten it against the edge, then straighten it again. Jack caught her looking and moved it a fraction of an inch a third time.

“OCD?” she asked.

“Among other charming features.”

“Me too.”

That settled something between them. There are friendships that take years to develop and others that begin when two people discover they've been arguing with the same invisible idiot.

The Fellow Who Knows Everything

“Does this stuff actually work?” Judy asked.

“Therapy?”

“Yeah.”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether you're willing to stop doing all the things that make you feel better.”

Judy stared at him.

“That's a terrible advertisement for therapy.”

“I thought so too. Particularly when I received the bill.”

Jack explained that for years he'd lived with a fellow who seemed to know everything. The fellow knew when something was dangerous, when Jack had made a mistake, when a relationship might be failing, and when a perfectly ordinary thought was evidence of a deeply troubling character defect.

The fellow was especially good at asking questions.

Are you sure you locked the door?

Are you absolutely certain you didn't offend somebody?

What if that strange feeling means something is medically wrong?

Do you really love your wife?

And while we're discussing your wife, are you certain she loves you?

Jack had assumed these were reasonable questions deserving reasonable answers. After all, responsible people think carefully. They examine evidence, anticipate problems, and try to avoid unnecessary mistakes.

The trouble was that his invisible companion never seemed satisfied.

“I'd answer one question, and he'd ask another. I'd check something, and he'd suggest checking it again. If I found convincing evidence that everything was fine, he'd want to know whether I was certain the evidence was reliable.”

“Sounds exhausting,” Judy said.

“He was. And apparently he never slept.”

Judy nodded. “Mine likes to wake me up at three in the morning with something I said at a dinner party six years ago.”

“Ah. Historical investigations. He's excellent at those.”

“And somehow I'm always guilty.”

“That's because he also serves as the judge.”

Jack eventually learned that the fellow had a name: obsessive-compulsive disorder. OCD, for short. An unfortunately tidy name for something capable of making an extraordinary mess.

But the most surprising discovery wasn't that OCD asked unreasonable questions. It was that Jack had spent years treating those questions as though they deserved an answer.

The World's Worst Customer Service Department

“Here's how it worked,” Jack continued. “I'd get anxious, do something to relieve the anxiety, feel better, and assume I'd solved the problem.”

“Hadn't you?”

“For about fifteen minutes.”

Jack explained that he had developed an impressive collection of anxiety-reducing behaviors. He checked things, analyzed conversations, reviewed memories, searched the internet, compared feelings, and occasionally asked his wife questions she had already answered.

“Are we okay?” was one of his favorites.

Sometimes his wife would reassure him that they were fine. He would feel better. Then, later, he would wonder whether she'd sounded entirely sincere.

Maybe she'd only said they were fine because she didn't want to upset him.

So he'd ask again.

“That's reassurance seeking,” Judy said.

“I know that now. At the time I called it communication.”

“Convenient distinction.”

“I was quite pleased with it.”

Jack had discovered that the same behavior could serve two entirely different purposes. Asking a spouse about the relationship could be healthy communication. But asking repeatedly because he needed anxiety to disappear was something else.

“I wasn't always asking my wife how our marriage was doing. Sometimes I was asking her to administer medication.”

“Medication?”

“‘Yes, we're fine.’ That was the drug.”

“And it worked?”

“Beautifully. Unfortunately, I developed a tolerance.”

Judy laughed, although she recognized the arrangement. Her own compulsions worked much the same way. The relief was real, but it never lasted. Every successful attempt to make anxiety disappear seemed to create another reason to need reassurance.

“So you're telling me that the things I do to feel safe are teaching my brain that I'm in danger?”

“Pretty much.”

“And you paid somebody to teach you that?”

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“Have you considered asking for a refund?”

Jack smiled. “You sound exactly like my wife.”

“Does she have OCD?”

“No. Just excellent judgment.”

Jack compared OCD to a customer service department that never closed a complaint. Every inquiry generated a case number. Every case number required additional documentation. And every satisfactory resolution came with a customer satisfaction survey asking whether he was absolutely certain the matter had been resolved.

“Eventually I realized I wasn't solving problems,” Jack said. “I was keeping the department in business.”

First, Have a Sandwich

Judy wanted to know what she was supposed to do instead.

“First,” Jack said, “have a sandwich.”

She waited.

“I'm serious.”

He explained something called HALT: Hungry, Angry, Lonely, Tired. It was a reminder that the condition of the person doing the thinking can influence the apparent importance of what she's thinking about.

Stress, illness, exhaustion, conflict, loneliness, and hunger don't cause OCD, but they can make an already sensitive alarm system considerably louder.

“I've solved my entire marriage at two in the morning several times,” Jack said. “None of the solutions survived breakfast.”

Judy considered this.

“I once decided I needed to quit my job, move across the country, and reconsider every major decision I'd made since college.”

“What time?”

“About 1:30 in the morning.”

“Had you eaten?”

“Not since lunch.”

“There you go.”

“So the treatment is sandwiches?”

“Not entirely. Occasionally there's soup.”

The point wasn't that every serious concern could be resolved with food and sleep. It was that exhaustion and distress could make an ordinary uncertainty feel like a catastrophe. Before trusting the urgency of a thought, Jack had learned to check the condition of the equipment doing the thinking.

Judy looked at him.

“I'm beginning to think psychology is considerably less glamorous than I imagined.”

“Wait until we get to breathing.”

OCD Has a Certain Smell

Jack said one of his most useful discoveries was learning to recognize OCD before becoming completely entangled in whatever it was talking about.

“It has a certain smell.”

Judy raised an eyebrow.

“Not literally. Although that would make diagnosis considerably easier.”

Jack described four familiar characteristics: OCD tended to be personal, catastrophic, critical, and urgent.

A thought wasn't merely interesting. It was personally significant. A possible mistake wasn't merely unfortunate. It was potentially catastrophic. An ordinary uncertainty became evidence of some moral or psychological deficiency. And whatever the question happened to be, it required immediate attention.

Judy nodded. “Mine speaks in capital letters.”

“Exactly.”

“WE HAVE TO FIGURE THIS OUT NOW.”

“And preferably before anybody gets a decent night's sleep.”

The subject could change dramatically. Health one month, relationships the next, morality after that. A memory from fifteen years ago could suddenly be subpoenaed for review.

But underneath the changing subjects, Jack recognized the same machinery.

“Eventually I stopped asking only whether the thought was true. I started asking what the thought wanted me to do.”

Did it want him to check? Analyze? Confess? Compare? Google? Review? Avoid? Ask somebody for reassurance? Test his feelings?

If the answer was to keep thinking until he achieved complete certainty, Jack had learned that he was probably being recruited into another lengthy investigation.

Judy thought about that.

“So instead of examining the question, you examine the fellow asking it?”

“Something like that.”

“Doesn't that just become another way of analyzing?”

Jack paused.

“You're going to be trouble, aren't you?”

“Almost certainly.”

She had identified an important problem. Even trying to determine whether a thought was OCD could become another compulsion if the goal was to achieve certainty about the diagnosis before moving on.

Sometimes recognizing the familiar pattern was enough. There was no need to conduct another investigation into whether an investigation was necessary.

OCD had a remarkable ability to turn almost anything into paperwork.

The Court Is Never Adjourned

For years Jack had tried to defeat intrusive thoughts by arguing with them.

It seemed reasonable. If a disturbing thought appeared, he would investigate it until he could establish that it wasn't true.

Unfortunately, OCD made a remarkably persistent prosecuting attorney.

Every answer produced another question. Every piece of evidence required verification. Every memory contained some inconsistency. Every reassurance had an expiration date.

“I finally figured out I was trying a case in a court that never adjourned.”

“So you stopped arguing?”

“I'm learning to.”

“What do you say?”

“Sometimes, ‘Maybe.’”

“Maybe?”

“Maybe it's true. Maybe it isn't. Maybe I remembered correctly. Maybe I didn't. Maybe this means something. Maybe it doesn't.”

“That sounds awful.”

“It was.”

“Was?”

“Now it's merely annoying.”

Judy smiled, but she understood the difficulty. Uncertainty had always felt like something she was supposed to eliminate. If she couldn't establish absolute certainty, she assumed she needed to keep investigating.

“But what if I really have done something wrong?” she asked.

“Then you deal with it. Apologize, repair what you can, take responsibility. That's different from reviewing the same memory forty-seven times trying to establish whether you're a good person.”

Judy sat with that distinction.

“So responsibility has an ending?”

“Sometimes. OCD generally doesn't.”

Jack wasn't suggesting that all worries were imaginary or that legitimate problems should be ignored. He was learning that uncertainty didn't automatically require another trial.

The point wasn't to prove the prosecutor wrong. It was to recognize that he didn't have to keep appearing in court.

When Coping Skills Wear Fake Mustaches

Judy was beginning to understand, but she had another question.

“So when I notice it's OCD, I just tell myself it's OCD?”

“Sometimes. But be careful.”

“Why?”

“Because OCD is perfectly willing to become your therapist.”

Jack explained a technique he called Label and Abandon. When he recognized the familiar urgency, doubt, catastrophic thinking, and demands for certainty, he could identify the pattern without entering into another investigation.

There goes OCD again.

Then he could return to whatever he'd been doing.

But if he spent twenty minutes trying to establish whether a thought was definitely OCD, he'd merely created a new compulsion.

“Now OCD has returned wearing a fake mustache and pretending to be a coping skill.”

Judy laughed.

“It'll do that with almost anything,” Jack continued. “Mindfulness, breathing exercises, positive thinking, even therapy homework. Give OCD a perfectly respectable psychological technique, and it'll figure out how to use it to demand certainty.”

Judy looked at her phone.

“I have an app that helps me track my anxiety.”

“Does it help?”

“Sometimes. But lately I've been getting anxious about whether I'm tracking it correctly.”

Jack said nothing.

“Oh, don't look so pleased with yourself,” she said.

“I'm trying not to.”

A Rather Brave Idea

Judy wanted something practical she could remember when anxiety became overwhelming.

Jack told her about BRAVE, an acronym he'd learned in anxiety treatment.

The B stood for noticing body signs: the tightening chest, unsettled stomach, racing heart, or tense muscles that often accompanied anxiety.

The R meant relax, although Jack preferred to think of it as slowing down rather than commanding himself to feel calm.

The A stood for activate helpful thoughts.

“Like telling yourself everything will be okay?” Judy asked.

“Careful. That's how I turned positive thinking into a compulsion.”

For OCD, a helpful thought wasn't necessarily reassuring. Sometimes it was simply more flexible and truthful.

I don't know. I don't have to know right now. I can make room for this uncertainty.

“That doesn't sound particularly comforting.”

“It isn't.”

“Then what's helpful about it?”

“It's honest.”

The V meant victory over fears: approaching what anxiety encouraged him to avoid, without automatically performing the rituals that had previously made him feel safe.

“And E?” Judy asked.

“Enjoy yourself.”

“That's part of treatment?”

“Best part.”

Jack explained that the goal wasn't to spend the rest of his life becoming increasingly skilled at managing anxiety. It was to become increasingly free to do the things anxiety had been interrupting.

A person could become extraordinarily knowledgeable about OCD and still miss a remarkable amount of her own life.

The Fellow in the Back Seat

“So does it eventually go away?” Judy asked.

Jack considered the question.

“Mine got quieter.”

“How quiet?”

“More like something in the back of my mind.”

Jack explained that he'd once imagined recovery as silence. No intrusive thoughts. No anxiety. No doubt. The invisible fellow would finally pack his belongings, surrender his keys, and move to another state.

Instead, Jack had discovered something better.

OCD could talk without being obeyed.

“I think of him as somebody sitting in the back seat of my car. He has opinions about everything.”

“Sounds like my mother.”

“This fellow is worse. He wants me to turn around and check the house. He thinks my marriage may be doomed. He believes every physical sensation deserves immediate medical investigation. He's extremely interested in certainty.”

“What do you do?”

“Drive.”

“You don't make him shut up?”

“I tried. He talked louder.”

Jack had gradually stopped measuring progress by how often OCD spoke and started measuring it by how often OCD got to choose the destination.

Judy considered this.

“So the goal isn't to get rid of the fellow?”

“Not necessarily.”

“Then what is it?”

“To stop arranging your life around him.”

Just then the therapist's door opened.

“Judy?”

She stood, then looked back at Jack.

“Will you be here next week?”

“Probably.”

“Good. I have about a hundred more questions.”

Jack smiled.

“Of course you do.”

She started toward the office, then stopped.

“One last thing. How do you know whether you're doing treatment correctly?”

Jack looked at her for a moment.

“That's an excellent question for OCD to ask.”

Judy laughed, shook her head, and disappeared into the office.

Jack returned to his magazine, resisting the urge to straighten it against the edge of the table.

He wasn't entirely successful.

But he left it crooked the second time.

And somewhere in the back seat, a very dissatisfied fellow began composing a letter of complaint.

In Part Two, Jack and Judy return to the waiting room to discuss exposure therapy, marriage, perfectionism, and the surprising possibility that recovery has less to do with feeling better than with getting back to living.

© 2026 Thomas Kurtz. All rights reserved.

Published by Thomas Kurtz Counseling, LLC.