Something has to Give...

I'm struggling today.  An episode of feeling faint, dizzy and sweaty has left me pondering my physical health yet again and I can't help but think I'm tired.  I'm exhausted constantly waiting for the next episode; waiting for the next panic attack or whatever this could be.  As afraid of death as I am and despite the fact that I would never hurt myself, sometimes I wonder if life is really worth the effort. 
Of course, these feelings hit me and I can't help but think about how life was for me growing up.  I was constantly afraid of what was going to happen.  Going home after school was incredibly scary for me.  I never knew what I would come home to; mom hitting me for no reason, step-dad drunk or high ready to fight at the drop of a hat, or mom and step-dad both high and fighting like two inmates. 
I remember one time my uncle on my mom's side came to our house.  He was obviously scared and I didn't know why.   I remember he rushed into the back bedroom with mom and step-dad and he was crying saying that he didn't want to die.  I, being a little girl, and not understanding why he was so scared, was terrified.  I didn't understand that he was having a drug overdose and was having a panic attack.  I thought he was sincerely dying and I was certain that I was losing an uncle who was always more like a big brother to me.
Another time, I watched my mom writhe and moan on the couch and tell me that she could see Granny and Pa.  "Can you see it," she'd ask over and over.  "They're here to take me.  They're here to take me."  I remember tears streaming down my face while we waited for someone to come help us, my brother and sister gaping at the sight with their own little minds fast at work.  I never knew what she was experiencing was drug related until I was older.  For the longest time, well into my twenties, I thought people could just have horrible things take them over for no reason. 
Another thing that may contribute to my intense anxiety is having step-dad dangle me from our third story balcony.  He would hold me by ankles and pretend to drop me; even as I screamed and cried and begged to be brought back up.  As scary as it was for me, I hated seeing it happen to my brother more so.  The terror expressed on his face was really hard for me to withstand.  As an adult, I can't really understand why nobody did anything.  There were so many people in that complex who had to have seen what was happening.  My mother would tell him not to do it, but she stuck around and sent the message that there was nothing he could do that would prompt her to leave.
My anxiety stems from a sense of never having control.  I feel as if my body is my enemy and I'm not in any sort of control over my emotions or reactions.  Sometimes, little things set me off and scare me and thoughts that should just pass without more than a giggle grab me and make me believe I'm either going crazy or dying.  The slightest twinge of my body and I break out into a full blown panic attack and the rest of the day, I'm thinking, worrying, wondering.  I wait for the attack that I don't come back from. 
I try to remind myself that if this thing were going to kill me, it would have happened a long time ago and that anxiety can sometimes make people think crazy things...but they're just thoughts.  They're scary and the feelings associated are hard to handle at the time, but all in all, I'm going to be okay.  I don't know what to do from here.  I plan on seeing my doctor for options, but something has to give.  Something has to give....