Epictetus' Discourses: Stoic Techniques for Handling Anxiety and Catastrophic Thinking

It's three in the morning, and you're staring at the ceiling. Your mind has constructed an elaborate disaster scenario—maybe you'll lose your job, maybe that medical test will come back wrong, maybe everything you've built is about to collapse. The thoughts spiral, each one darker than the last, feeding on themselves until your chest feels tight and sleep becomes impossible.

This particular form of suffering isn't new. Nearly two thousand years ago, a man named Epictetus understood it intimately. Born into slavery, he endured conditions most of us can barely imagine. His leg was permanently crippled—some accounts say by his owner. Yet from this crucible of genuine hardship, he developed techniques for managing the mind that remain remarkably potent today.

What I want to share with you are two practices that emerged from his teachings. The first is called the dichotomy of control—a method for sorting what deserves your mental energy from what doesn't. The second is negative visualization, which sounds counterintuitive but actually inoculates you against the catastrophic thinking that keeps you awake at night.

These aren't abstract philosophical concepts. They're practical tools, refined through real suffering, designed to quiet the anxious mind.

So let's look at the foundation of Epictetus' entire philosophical system. It appears in the very first lines of the Enchiridion, and it's deceptively simple. He tells us that some things are within our control and some things are not. Within our control are our judgments, our impulses, our desires, and our aversions. Essentially, our mental responses to the world. Outside our control is nearly everything else: our bodies, our possessions, our reputations, the behavior of other people, and crucially, outcomes.

Now, here's where this becomes therapeutically powerful. Epictetus argues that almost all of our disturbance, our anxiety, our frustration, comes from a fundamental category error. We treat things outside our control as if we can control them, and then we suffer when reality refuses to cooperate.

Think about the anxiety surrounding a job interview. What actually keeps someone up at night? Usually it's thoughts like: What if they don't like me? What if someone else is more qualified? What if the interviewer is having a bad day? Notice that every single one of those concerns falls outside the person's control. The interviewer's mood, the competition, the final hiring decision—none of these respond to effort or will.

But consider what is within control: how thoroughly you prepare, the attitude you bring into the room, how you respond to unexpected questions, whether you stay present or spiral into panic. These are the domains where your energy actually makes a difference.

This reframing isn't about becoming passive or indifferent. Epictetus isn't saying don't care about getting the job. He's saying redirect your caring toward what you can actually influence. Prepare thoroughly because preparation is yours. Show up with presence because presence is yours. And then, having done what's genuinely available to you, release your grip on the outcome. The decision belongs to someone else. It always did.

When we mistake uncontrollables for controllables, we exhaust ourselves pushing against immovable walls. The dichotomy of control helps us find the door.

So let me give you something concrete you can use the next time anxiety starts spiraling. Epictetus wasn't interested in abstract philosophy for its own sake. He wanted tools that worked in the moment, when your chest is tight and your thoughts are racing.

Here's the practice. When you notice catastrophic thinking taking hold, pause. Take a breath. And then mentally draw a line down the middle of your attention. On one side, place everything about this situation that you can actually influence. On the other, everything that falls outside your control.

Let's say you're worried about a loved one's health. Your mind is generating worst-case scenarios, running through every terrible possibility. Stop and sort. What can you influence? You can offer support. You can help research treatment options. You can be present. You can manage your own stress so you're actually useful to them. What can't you control? The diagnosis itself. How their body responds to treatment. The ultimate outcome.

Notice what happens when you do this. The overwhelming mass of worry starts to separate into distinct pieces. Some of those pieces you can actually do something about. Others, you recognize, were never yours to carry in the first place.

This isn't about dismissing real concerns or pretending everything will be fine. It's about directing your mental energy toward what can actually receive it productively. Worry spent on things beyond your influence is energy that could have gone toward action within your sphere.

And here's what Epictetus understood deeply: you'll need to do this again. And again. The mind drifts back to externals constantly. That's not failure. That's just the practice. Each time you notice and return to the sorting, you're strengthening something. You're building the habit of distinguishing between productive concern and useless rumination.

Now here's where Epictetus offers us something that might seem paradoxical at first. The Stoics practiced what they called premeditatio malorum, the premeditation of evils. Deliberately imagining worst-case scenarios. And if you struggle with anxiety, your immediate reaction might be, why on earth would I want to do that? I already spend too much time thinking about what could go wrong.

But there's a crucial distinction that makes all the difference. Anxious rumination is involuntary. It ambushes you at three in the morning. It loops endlessly without resolution. It's driven by panic and resistance. Negative visualization, as Epictetus taught it, is something entirely different. It's deliberate, brief, and conducted from a position of calm acceptance.

Epictetus encouraged his students to contemplate the impermanence of everything they held dear. When you kiss your child goodnight, he wrote, whisper to yourself that they are mortal. When you embrace a friend, acknowledge silently that this moment will not last forever. Even your own life, he reminded us, is on loan.

This isn't morbidity. It's inoculation. When we voluntarily approach our fears in a controlled way, something shifts neurologically and psychologically. The feared outcome loses its grip on us. We're no longer running from shadows because we've turned around and looked directly at them in daylight.

Think of it like exposure therapy. By briefly and calmly sitting with the possibility of loss, we reduce the shock and terror that accompanies unexpected misfortune. We build what psychologists now call psychological flexibility. We also cultivate profound gratitude for what we currently have, because we've reminded ourselves that none of it was ever guaranteed.

The key is intentionality. You choose when to engage in this practice. You limit its duration. You approach it not with dread but with philosophical curiosity. What would I do if this happened? How would I cope? What resources do I have? The answers that emerge often surprise us with their resilience.

So how do we actually practice this technique without spiraling into the very anxiety we're trying to manage? The key is timing and structure.

First, choose a moment when you're feeling relatively calm and grounded. This isn't something to attempt during an anxiety attack or when you're already ruminating. Think of it like a fire drill—you practice when there's no emergency so you're prepared when one arrives.

Find a quiet space, take a few slow breaths, and then briefly—and I mean briefly, perhaps thirty seconds to a minute—allow yourself to imagine a feared scenario. Let's say it's losing your job. You picture the conversation, the walk to your car, the uncertainty ahead.

Now here's where Epictetus transforms this from mere worry into wisdom. Ask yourself three questions. First: What would I actually do if this happened? Not the catastrophic fantasy, but the practical steps. You'd update your resume. You'd reach out to contacts. You'd apply for unemployment if needed.

Second: What resources would I still have? Your skills don't disappear with a job. Your education remains. Your relationships—family, friends, former colleagues—they're still there.

Third, and perhaps most importantly: What aspects of my character would remain intact? Your integrity, your capacity for kindness, your ability to learn and adapt—these aren't things an employer can take from you.

What you'll often discover through this process is that you're far more resilient than catastrophic thinking suggests. The imagined disaster, when examined calmly, reveals your capacity to cope.

End the practice deliberately. Take a breath, release the visualization, and return your attention to what you have right now. Notice what's working. Notice who's in your life. Let gratitude arise naturally from the contrast between imagined loss and present reality.