Every generation seems to believe it faces an unprecedented crisis, a unique doom that sets it apart from all others. But is this belief more about narcissism than reality? Poets, writers, filmmakers, and cultural critics have long capitalized on this idea, crafting narratives of impending catastrophe that often profit from the very panic they create. Take Alfred Tennyson’s In Memoriam, written in 1850 amidst post-Darwinian cultural upheaval and personal loss. This elegy laments the erosion of belief systems, the randomness of natural selection, and the fragile nature of kinship—a profound exploration of anxiety on both personal and societal levels. It resonates across cultures, inviting us to ponder anxiety’s dual nature: molecular and monumental, intimate and universal.
Joseph LeDoux’s groundbreaking book Anxious (2015) offers a neuroscientific and evolutionary perspective on anxiety, arguing that it’s the price our brains pay for the ability to anticipate the future. But here’s where it gets controversial: Could the information overload of modern life, with its anticipatory mechanisms, be the very thing fueling anxiety in contemporary culture? LeDoux’s work challenges us to reconsider anxiety not just as a burden but as a byproduct of our cognitive evolution.
Consider Hamlet, the quintessential literary figure of indecision. His anxiety stems from an overactive mind, constantly anticipating outcomes and weighing possibilities. And this is the part most people miss: Hamlet’s paralysis isn’t just a character flaw—it’s a reflection of the anxiety that comes with overthinking, a trait many of us share in today’s hyper-connected world.
In the post-digital age, memory and anxiety are inextricably linked. As memory studies scholar Andrew Hoskins notes, memory in this era is episodic, kinetic, and contagious. Digital platforms quantify memory through likes, views, and shares, creating a feedback loop where anticipation and validation collide. But at what cost? Memories of purchases and consumption are commodified, manipulated by algorithms that predict and preempt our desires. This digital memory-ecology blurs the line between anticipation and anxiety, turning the latter into a marketable commodity.
T. S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock captures this modern anxiety, describing nerves thrown into patterns on a screen—a metaphor for the fragmented, anticipatory nature of contemporary life. In what I term the digicorporeal—the asymmetrical entanglement of the physical and digital—anxiety is both internalized and industrialized. It manifests in behaviors like doom scrolling, where the compulsive consumption of negative news turns anxiety into a cycle of gratification and dread.
Is our digital health exacerbating our biological health? The convergence of body metrics and digital validation—heart rates, likes, views—creates a complex ecology where anxiety thrives. Neural networks and digital interfaces collude, compressing space and time, merging anticipation and memory into a seamless anxiety. As Eliot’s Prufrock laments, it’s a world of indecision and revision, where even the simplest act becomes fraught with anxiety.
What do you think? Is anxiety a necessary byproduct of our evolved brains, or is it amplified by the digital age? Share your thoughts in the comments—let’s spark a conversation about the anxieties of our time.
