Pot Calling the Kettle Black

Today is my parents' 25th anniversary. That's a quarter of a century. Yikes. Anyway, I called them to say congrats and whatnot, but they didn't pick up the first few times I tried. I didn't think much of it the first instance, but after that I kept getting more and more nervous. I didn't realize how big a breath I'd been holding until they finally picked up the phone the umpteenth time I called. Yeah, I know. I'm just like my parents. I've gotten too used to them picking up immediately after the dial tone begins, and I've become too worried over their wellbeing.

I imagine worst-case scenarios in my head, grisly death scenes to explain why my mother or my brother don't answer the phone on time for some occasions. I'm going too far with it, but I can't help it. I dream up these horrific what-ifs, and they don't go away until I hear the sound of their annoying voices. If they don't call back for the day, I can get physically ill from my anxiety. My parents do the exact same thing. I wish I didn't have my figurative umbilical cord still attached to the parental units.