Anxious, Invested, and Showing Up Anyway
TBD The Improvised Musical
April 2025
I had a show last night. Same amazing venue that hosts my improvised musical every month here in Columbus, Ohio. But last night wasn’t like other nights. We were bumped an hour later, starting at 8:30 PM on a Wednesday. The performance was booked on a smaller, more intimate stage. And instead of our usual full cast, we were a group of six, that's half the team, including a new cast member.
Now, I’ve been performing for most of my life. Some of my earliest memories are of singing and acting in front of large crowds. And over the past 14 years, I’ve done hundreds of improv shows, made up entirely on the spot. So you’d think I’d feel unshakable by now. Well that's not the case. In fact I'm never NOT nervous before a show, and I was especially nervous last night with all the unknowns.
"What if our small audience lacks enthusiasm?" (Something that's less likely with larger crowds.)
"What if this new stage poses technical challenges, like lighting and sound?"
On top of all that there was my normal pre-show anxiety as well. "What if I bomb?"
As it turned out the show was small but mighty and everything worked out. The improvised music resounded, the audience appropriately LOL'd, and the small cast was actually ideal for the smaller stage. The new guy? He nailed it. So here I am, reflecting on last night as I write this on a rainy Thursday afternoon. At first I wondered, “Why do I still get so nervous..” a bit annoyed with myself. I know the experience is certainly worth the stress, but with all my performance background and despite logic, why does my brain and body still go through it at all?
"It's unnecessary. It's unhelpful. It's wasted energy!”
I saw that worry chart pop up in my head that shows how inefficient worrying is.
The chart looks something like this. I can't seem to find the original on Google.
But then another thought came in, quieter and kinder: “Wow, after all this time I still care a lot.” How about that…
That shift in perspective made me look back at my 10 years in tech and mobility startups. So many late work nights driven by anxiety to learn new tools or take on extra projects, and so many tears shed related to dumpster-fire startup challenges. I've cringed at myself for many years remembering back to my “unhelpful” anxiety and those sometimes public tears, and wished it all away. I've reimagined scenarios in which I could have been more stoic or just not cared as much. I've hoped that books and maturity might save me from internal stress in the future. But with this kinder lens, I came to see things a bit differently. Whether or not I needed to care as much as I did, I cared a lot and that drove me to do big amazing things.
In launching WitWorks, I’ve come to recognize the emotional ebb and flow that comes with starting a business. Anxiety in my chest creeps in before the thoughts do sometimes. However, whether it's with my business, my shows, or whatever in life, I am deciding I don't want to try to reason myself out of these feelings anymore. And actually after a lifetime on stage, I think ditching my nerves, without ditching my passion for whatever I am doing, is actually impossible. Instead, I want to observe and appreciate those nerves for what they really are; my little internal meters clearly communicating that I care deeply.
Today’s bloggy braindump is for anyone who still gets anxious before a presentation, or might just cry over dysfunctional Wi-Fi…
May we stop punishing ourselves for our nerves.
May we instead gently observe them.
May we thank them for reminding us we care.
And to leaders - Know this: Nerves aren’t a liability. They’re a signal of care, risk-taking, and investment. In improv, we don’t wait until we feel perfectly confident to step on stage, we go anyway. The same goes for your team. When people feel safe enough to show up authentically, jitters, passion, tears and all, that’s not unprofessional. That’s psychological safety. That’s heart-led performance. And that’s where your most impactful work begins.
Kindly,
Katie
