Your Audience Is Imaginary

Turns out the crowd in your head didn’t buy tickets.

I always feel like somebody’s watchin’ me, Rockwell sings. Anxiety agrees and adds a whole imaginary comment section.

Last week, I almost talked myself out of pitching an idea. Not because it sucked, but because I imagined an old coworker reading it and thinking: lol okay. I wasn’t afraid of failing. I was afraid of being seen failing.

Another time, I stalled for 10 minutes before clicking send on a harmless message. Not because it was risky, but because I’d conjured a whole audience in my head, dissecting every word. I acted like the message would be reviewed by a tribunal. All it got was one emoji.

Most failures are boring. You tweak and move on. What we actually dread is the dramatic reaction we’ve already written in our heads — and wrongly assumed others will perform.

We picture a colosseum of critics waiting for us to misstep. But that colosseum? It’s empty. Everyone’s too busy with themselves, wondering if their fridge light really turns off when the door closes or if they accidentally liked a post from 2017.

And if someone does notice? They’ll forget by dessert. Or they’ll admire the effort. Or they’ll keep scrolling because their day isn’t about you.

Here’s the upside: if nobody’s really watching, you’re free to take bolder swings. You can iterate in public. You can learn in real time. You get to trip, recover, and act like it was choreography.

Even better: when you stop trying to impress ghosts, perfectionism loses its script — and procrastination quiets down. You try more. You tweak faster. You get curious instead of perfect. That’s how momentum starts.

So go on. Say the maybe-dumb sentence. Make the awkward ask. Start the weird project. Nobody’s watching as closely as you fear. And that’s exactly why you’re free.

Turns out, the song is half-right. Somebody’s always watching — but it’s you, and you’re way too harsh.

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