SOME days, I can’t find my anchor. Now, that might not seem like much of a problem since, you know, I’m not the QE2, but surely I don’t need a keel and a haul to find myself flailing when the storm comes.

I think I’m just a victim of the changing winds. It’s hard sometimes to locate north when your compass can’t find steady ground on which to settle.

I’ve always really struggled to keep the ship steady. I’ve tried tipping back the spinach and even dabbled with a pipe, but if the sailor’s cap don’t fit, you just don’t get to wear it, landlubber. In recent years, as I’ve fought back against nerves that had held me in check for as long as I could remember, life has somehow gone from swell to tsunami, and it’s hard to fight a tide of that proportion.

Strange though it may sound, anxiety was always that which grounded me. Sure, it forced me into that ground and stood on my head until I passed out, but at least at those points when the boot-print bruised my cheek, I was so familiar with its outline that it almost gave me comfort. So when the pressure was lifted and I was finally free to stand again, I’ll admit I couldn’t quite get used to the altitude. For decades, my anxiety had wrapped itself so tightly around my personality as to convince me they were one and the same and, without it, I guess, I wasn’t quite sure who I was anymore.

Without my nerves to consider, life was all at once unbridled, unrestricted, and completely uncontrollable. Stockholmed by my own neuroses, I found myself unable to believe that my character could be self-sustaining, after such time spent coddled by fear. As the months have passed, I’ve embraced the freedom of post-anxiety living. Of course, I’ll never be cured of such overwhelming mental health issues, but the episodes in which they feature are more of a two-parter than a series these days. I often wonder though if that period of confusion could have been made less engulfing. If only I’d had something to hold onto, a point on which to focus, a guide to keep me moving around the bend.

If only I’d had, well, circle dancing.

It’s difficult to describe the warmth of welcome that swathes you on arriving at a circle dancing class. Imagine a hug that reminds you of that moment in childhood when nothing else matters but those arms around your body. Then add songs and chatter and a communal smile, and maybe you’re coming close. Now back off, folks, I need some space.

The atmosphere of circle dancing, I quickly came to realise, is one of its strongest pillars. It’s in the hug that greets even the newest member, it’s in the esteem with which the routines are held; hell, it’s even in the tea-time seating plan. Not that it’s sold that way; no, you could turn up at a lesson expecting the joy only of dances from around the globe to an eclectic soundtrack at an easy to moderate pace. And you wouldn’t be disappointed, since that’s exactly what you get. Only it’s not. Not really.

I mean, of course, the activity is true to the description; as we sixteen took our place in the centre of St Andrew’s Church Hall in Milngavie, in a shape that could only be described as vaguely circular, it was pretty clear the dance was exactly as advertised. But there was more going on than simply steps in succession, although that would have been plenty for these left feet of fury. I have no business hyperbolising – my prose can’t support the burden of exaggeration – but such a spirit of community and comfort arose in me during that two-hour lesson – and it all seems to stem from the power of touch.

As Jenny Oswald, the class’s teacher explained, the bond of holding another person’s hand, while you learn and travel together, stays with you long beyond the music’s last note. That point of contact, that connection, is one that, for many, completes their own circle. And, for the purposes of the dance, there’s even an established system for hand-holding – one under, one over – to avoid that awkward shuffle as palms collide. All very considerate.

The Milngavie sessions are part of a wider network of classes, known collectively as Circle Dancing For All, which stemmed from an event in Kelvingrove Art Gallery as part of the Glasgow 2014 cultural programme. Running also in Partick, Carluke and Lanark, the lessons attract a stalwart squad, many of an older generation due to its gentle nature and versatility, but the wider reach of circle dancing is nigh on rotund. Performances across Scotland, in such impressive venues as Stirling Castle and the Theatre Royal in Glasgow, have helped this particular group to bring the form to a broader audience, and they’ve even inspired a fresh generation of revolvers by teaching Guides towards their newly-established circle dancing badge. Who needs bushcraft when you’ve got a grapevine in your arsenal?

Jenny’s lesson began in a way distinct from any other movement pursuit I had ever attended: by introducing ourselves to the group, sharing our joys of the day, and stilling our souls for a moment. Such a small touch can somehow really bring your head fully into a room, insulating you from the outside for too short a blissful time. And circle dancing is full of these details; my favourite of which is the centrepiece. A vase of flowers from a dancer’s garden, a brightly burning candle and a delicate swatch of fabric drew our gaze to the gathering’s middle, anchoring the circle both in the space and in our heads.

Soon the moving and shaking was under way, as Jenny taught me some of the group’s favourite dances, and I moved and shook my way through them. There were indulgent beginner sequences, lively cycles, and elaborate breakaways, whereby Jenny led the severed circle snake-like around itself, spiralling and coiling, but ever in step. Some were speedy, keeping me quite literally on my toes, some slowed down the tempo but not my thought processing, as I’m not naturally loose of foot.

But throughout, even as the melodies quickened, the mood remained beautifully, joyously meditative. Not maudlin nor melancholy, just contemplative; as though we’d all individually found a place that we could just be together. Something about those repetitive patterns, that round and round, the ebb, the flow, drew my mind in and held it in gentle abeyance. So that, by the time we had danced to Hungarian folk, contemporary choral, and traditional Greek music, I mainly had trance in my head.

Forby a short tea break, our little company stayed on its many feet until the incoming yoga contingent was ready to peacefully protest our party. I left the embrace of that cosy church hall with a beautiful posy of wild flowers, friends I will always return to, and a real sense of constancy that even the threat of anxiety could no longer capsize. And, for now, that’s ballast enough for this drifting vessel.