Doechii Gives Us 'Anxiety'

Doechii doesn’t write records just to write them—every song feels like something. The titles, like Anxiety, aren’t just names; they’re signals, lining up perfectly with the emotions embedded in the music.

There’s no formula here, no industry blueprint to follow. Rap, at its core, has never been about that. It’s about the heart. It’s about freedom. And for her, it’s about expressing what’s real.

She likes recording alone. There’s a certain intimacy in creating without outside influence, just her, a mic, and whatever truth needs to be told that day. That’s where the best music happens—not when she’s chasing a structure, but when she’s letting it all pour out. “I make my best music when I’m not tryna follow a formula,” she says, a reminder that some of the most powerful art comes from rejecting limitations.

Mixtapes, historically, have always been about that freedom. And that’s why they’ve mattered so much to rap’s DNA.

Drawn to the things people like to hide. Transparency isn’t just part of her artistry—it’s what defines it. Other people are going through these things, and they need to hear somebody talk about it. They need to hear somebody say it out loud. That’s what separates her from the rest. While some make music for moments, chasing trends, she makes music for therapy. She understands that when you start diluting your message to fit a mold, you lose something: the story, the intensity, the real, the meaning.

Not here to fit into a formula that can be copied and pasted. She’s forever evolving, leading by example in a culture that deeply needs influencing and love. This isn’t about just making songs—it’s about making people feel. And that’s something no industry blueprint can replicate.

Anxiety is more than just a song—it’s a moment of reclamation.

Some records take time to find their audience. This one did it twice. First released in 2019, Anxiety was never meant for DSPs or mainstream exposure. It was for those who needed it. Then, in 2023, a Sleepy Hallow sample unknowingly reignited the fire, sending the original track into a viral spiral that made one thing clear: people wanted the real thing.

She listened and gave it to them.

The song loops like intrusive thoughts, built around Gotye’s Somebody That I Used to Know—a cycle of fear and self-doubt that refuses to let go. Her voice drifts between hypnotic melodies and sharp, rapid-fire verses, mirroring the relentless grip of anxiety itself. She never says exactly who or what she’s fighting—maybe it’s the industry, the internet, or the weight of being hyper-visible in a world that critiques your every move. The ambiguity makes it universal.

This isn’t just an emotion—it’s an entity, a force that keeps pushing, testing, trying to break her down.

The repetition in her delivery makes it even more real. Anyone who’s been trapped in an anxious loop knows the feeling—you try to escape, but it keeps creeping back. She’s trying to hold it together, but the next line reveals the truth—she’s losing the fight. It’s naked. It’s honest. And that’s what makes it hit so hard.

By the end, nothing is resolved. The cycle hasn’t broken. The thoughts haven’t stopped. Anxiety is still there, circling back, just as strong as before. And that’s exactly what makes this song so powerful—because that’s exactly how it feels.

Special credits - Jaylah Hickmon, Luiz Bonfá, Water Andre E De Backer.