Hi, I'm Clara. I'm a music critic, and on Sunday 12th June, I tore my eardrum.

This morning I woke up to news that Britain was going to leave the European Union. I thought we wouldn't. I also thought Britain wouldn't elect a Conservative government in 2015 because I don't know one person who admitted to wanting to elect a Conservative government, and I don't know one person who claimed to want to vote to leave the EU. But of course, those people exist, and now I know about them I need to expand my view of what Britain is like now to make space for them.

Sometimes getting ripped from your reality really fast makes you vulnerable to experiencing space and time go strange, just like they do right before you have a panic attack. A friend from home rang me on my lunch hour the day results came in from the last election. She was in alone at her parent's house in Birmingham. As she described how she was frightened by what would happen now to people without money, or the backup infrastructure of friends and family and business contacts, she kept interrupting herself to describe how the carpets in the living room looked hyperreal. They looked dull and dusty, and the curtains looked old as they always did, but suddenly they seemed actively dull. The room has started to seem aggressively mediocre, like each of the elements of it were growing around her without changing in size. They were asserting themselves as real. Real in their dullness. She felt like everything had leapt into the foreground at once, meaning that nothing became more prominent than anything else, but rather background has ceased to exist. She didn't know what to pay attention too, she felt overwhelmed. Her understanding of what the world outside of the living room was like was stretching out frighteningly, yet the room itself was aching and stretching too. She did not know what to pay attention too. Each pattern on each piece of furniture seemed to require her to look at them.

I suggested to her that maybe she was having her first panic attack. The thought had never occurred to her, as the stereotypical description of sensory overload is seeing colours brighter, not as dull but 'realer'. In my experience, when your comfort in the natural progression of time and space flexes on you, you're more likely to be alarmed that things are exactly as they are than alarmed that they've changed. Momentum is a comfort you can't have. You're stuck just where you are and it's crowding you out. My thoughts are with the people formerly oblivious to public opinion who are having this happen to them today.

Thinking about this all has made think about Kate Nash. Kate Nash is one of my political heroes, but most of my friends think she's a bit naff. I tried to proudly play the song 'Mouthwash' to a boy once and he cut across the diagonal plod of the song at the line, "I've got a fam-i-ly/ And I drink cups of tea" to sarckily say, "thanks for sharing love."

Maybe people think Kate Nash is basic because she doesn't expend time trying to abstract herself or her life. The song 'I Hate You this Christmas', is about hating someone, at Christmastime. The best-known line in 'Foundations' - the track she wrote about a slow but inevitable relationship breakdown - is the drolly delivered, "I'll leave you there in the morning, and I purposefully won't turn the heating on." I wonder if people would think the song 'I Hate You this Christmas' was a more inventive piece of music if it was called, I don't know, 'Grapefruit'? 'Existential Sands of Time'? I'm just freewheeling art-house sounding names here.

To me, Kate Nash's refusal to talk about herself opaquely is her great strength. It is also her craft. Building new things isn't the only form of crafting; precisely revealing what is there already is its own creation. This is the same piece of logic that explains why panic attacks are a new experience each time - are experienced by the person having them as a rapid rupture of the fabric of their day - because usually, to suddenly see something or hear something described exactly as it is, is new.

No song about self-harm has ever caused me a sharper inhalation of breath than Kate Nash's 'Don't You Want to Share the Guilt'. It starts, "Barbeque food is good/ You invite me out to eat it - I should/ But I'm feeling kind of nervous, and not quite myself/ So I'm running late on purpose, though I know that won't help." By starting with the minutiae of getting ready to go out, Kate Nash lulls the listener into a space without foreboding. It feels safe to listen. It's then that she goes there: "You're in the shower when I arrive, so I help to dry your body, when I see your cut. I say, have you been crying? You say, shut up. So I give you a plaster, and we cover it up." And next? "We go and sit in the garden, and touch the grass with our hands." In describing every boring detail of the day you find out something shocking, before and after the moment of discovery, Kate Nash did something for me that was radically new. She made space for the complicated, messy reality of all the bad, difficult to summarise experiences I have ever had.

In music, abstract language can provide a remove, functioning as a space to view normalcy from and reveal it for what it is, which can often be surprising. Oftentimes though, abstraction can also be a form of lacking in confidence. It can come from a place of thinking that you need to use longer words or less familiar but neater imagery to make life seem important. Kate Nash thinks she's important right now, and she makes me feel important too.