Why I Still Get Nervous Before Improv (and Why I’d Be Worried If I Didn’t)

People are often surprised when I tell them I get nervous before shows.

Not a fluttery, butterflies-in-the-stomach nervous. A proper nervous. The kind where I deliberately don’t join in the warm-ups. Where I quietly remove myself from the group. Where, if you tried to chat to me moments before I go on stage, you’d probably get a polite nod and very little else.

If you saw me seconds before I step out, you might assume I’m either deeply spiritual or deeply rude. In reality, I’m neither. I’m preparing.

I need that quiet. I need that stillness. I need to get my head into the right place, because once I step on stage, everything flips.

The energy goes up immediately. Big. Bold. Musical. Confident. The sort of confidence that makes people say things like, “You looked so relaxed,” or, “How on earth did you just make all of that up?”

What they don’t see is the internal wrestling match that happened beforehand.

And musical improv makes this ten times worse.

I love musical improv. It’s exhilarating, ridiculous, and genuinely one of the most joyful things I get to do on stage. It is also the says-the-quiet-part-out-loud version of improv fear. You don’t just have to invent a scene, you have to invent a song. With rhymes. And a tune. In front of people.

So yes, I get nervous. Extra nervous.

The strange thing is, I think I’d be more concerned if I didn’t.

Because those nerves seem to act like fuel. They sharpen something in me. They pull my focus inwards and then, once the moment arrives, release it all at once. Like a slingshot.

Even with long COVID, that adrenaline can make me look like the most energetic person in the room. For 30-60

minutes, I am unstoppable. Afterwards, the cost becomes very real. Only my wife really sees that part. But the starting point is always the same. Those nerves.

Just the other day, I was part of a brilliant show. I was closing the first half with a short snippet of my one-man show, including one of my musical bits and a pun-based section. I was sat in the audience watching the host group perform, and yet I wasn’t fully there.

I could see the scenes. I could hear the laughs. But mentally, I was waiting.

Until I’d gone on and done my bit, I couldn’t properly relax into the show happening right in front of me.

My solo set went incredibly well. And suddenly, there I was. Present. Energised. Ready to take on the world.

I performed again in the second half with members of Flintshire Funnybone. Then The Davenham Players closed the show. Then we all piled into a big jam where audience members joined in too. And I loved it. I was open, playful, and fully engaged.

As always, somewhere in the second half, that familiar internal conversation popped up.

“What was all the fuss about?”

I never have a good answer. I just know that, for whatever reason, the nerves are part of the process. Not an obstacle to confidence, but the thing that creates it.

Improv often celebrates fearlessness. But for me, it has always been about learning how to walk on stage while scared. To accept the nerves, respect them, and then use them.

So if you ever see me avoiding warm-ups, staring into the middle distance, or behaving like a monk on the verge of a very silly sermon, don’t worry.

It just means I care.

And in improv, that’s usually a good sign.