For a couple of months after recovering from a mild case of COVID-19, I became gripped by anxiety that I would get reinfected by a passerby on the street, a nurse at the clinic for my blood draws or moments in an elevator.
I walked down the sidewalk constantly analyzing other people’s masks, stepping into the bike lane to avoid getting too close.
My fear of contamination spread into other parts of my life, to the point where I ran to tell my husband if I accidentally brushed raw chicken while cooking.
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