Perhaps it was back when you were a harried teenager, facing relentless questions from well-meaning but fretful parents. Maybe it was during a darker period of emotional turmoil, when an existential angst consumed everything, starting with the ability to ask for, and receive, help. Or was it just a single moment spent lashing out at a friend’s artless attempt to show they care?

We’ve all been there. That inexplicable rage when someone asks, just once too often, if we’re alright, or: “Is everything okay?” Especially when everything really was fine, except for the relentless questions about how we are.