My mum talks about having a ‘worry buffer’. Most of your brain spends its time getting on with life; work, family, friends, money. Any spare capacity is your worry buffer; the spare capacity which spends its time thinking about things that might happen; future plans, future concerns, chuntering away creating an ever-growing list of things to worry about. Some are trivial, others much less so; it might be that you’ve got to fix a squeaky door or muse about how many more years you might be alive. When the worry buffer is full, you can’t take anymore on board and begin to shut down, life feels overwhelming, you stop processing things properly.

At its worst, it infiltrates your regular life; you can’t focus on the basics because your brain is preoccupied processing other stuff. I’ve felt my worry buffer filling up this week. It’s been busy and bitty, so there hasn’t been much capacity in the first place. Anything left over has gradually filled with the seemingly unrelenting grim news of the cost of living and whatnot.

The thing with the worry buffer, is that it can be filled up with anything, it doesn’t have to be important or even particularly real. It’s just stuff. I’m lucky enough not to be in that bracket of people where the cost of living has a genuinely devastating or life threatening impact, at least not yet, but nobody is immune. But it sits there next to a concern about whether you need to buy some milk or have enough to get through breakfast.

The aim is to remove things from the buffer, either by dealing with them or by putting them out of your mind. I listened to a podcast with Ruby Wax recently who said that you need to treat problems of anxiety, depression or simple worry like a Spotify playlist, when it starts to play, you consciously recognise it. You can’t escape it necessarily, but you do know what it is, how to ride it and ultimately, that it will end. If the milk thing is a marginal call, go and buy some milk.

The travails of Oxford United are not always at the forefront of my mind. The routines of the season can be a good antidote to worry. It gives your brain a rest just for a few hours, its eternal presence is reassuring. But, in terms of the intensity of its presence, that comes and goes. If the worry buffer fills up, the basic mechanics of there being a game and wanting us to win remain, but the whys and wherefores, the ambition and longer-term prospects become less important.

When we went a goal down against Cheltenham, we were sat one place above the relegation zone. The teams around us were teams we’ve already played and struggled against. How much I cared about our underperformance started to wane, I simply couldn’t allow it to occupy my thoughts because it wouldn’t fit. 

This isn’t unusual, I think many fans cope with poor form by, effectively, disowning the importance of a game. I did it when England played Germany in the Euros last month; when the German’s equalised and looked the better team, I started to convince myself that none of it mattered. 

But the truth is, while it is easy to simply shut down and stop caring, something or someone has to drag you out of the stupor somehow. For lots of people, when it comes to their football club, when things are going badly, you simply stop going to games and take increasingly less interest in the club. It’s not something that’s worthy of a place in your worry buffer. You can’t afford to waste your energy on it.

The same must be true for players; during difficult periods it must be easy to simply regress to the basics; thankful that you have a contract and some security, less committed to getting good results or playing for your teammates. It’s how clubs fall into disarray. 

Since rejecting a move to Blackpool and signing a contract extension, Cameron Brannagan has had an interesting season. He achieved a higher talismanic status but Marcus McGuane’s form has left him without an obvious role. McGuane is like your mum coming to stay for a few days where she does the washing, cooking and cleans the house. It’s great but leaves you without a role. Then she reorganises the cupboard of cleaning products into ‘upstairs’ and ‘downstairs’ products and buys some boxes for them to go in so you can easily grab what you need when you need to give the toilet a quick clean. It’s kind, smart, well-meaning, and insanely irritating.

So while McGuane patrols the midfield keeping the ball moving, Brannagan has at times looked a bit redundant. He’ll ping a forty-yard pass, without a murmur or appreciation because that’s just what he does. He’ll go and find another job to do, the equivalent of sorting the screws in your toolbox, it’s gives some purpose, but it’s not as good as cleaning products thing. 

Going a goal down on Saturday suddenly clarified Brannagan’s value; he’s just there, he’ll make things happen. Need a spectacular equaliser? Got it. Need a calm head for a penalty four minutes from time? No problem. When all is slipping away, the worry buffer is full to overflowing and the troubles of a third-tier football club grow increasingly trivial by comparison, players like Brannagan will drag you through, re-energise your purpose and even help put other things into perspective.

I suspect that Brannagan is simply too busy getting on with things to fully appreciate his impact. He probably just assumes everyone is like him. That driving force takes energy, maybe one day he’ll get a chance to reflect on what he means to the club, but not now; he’s got things to do.