A MAN in a suit plays with a sachet of sugar, squeezes it between his fingers, squashes it in his fist and flicks it around absent-mindedly. He sits in a cafe on Collins Street looking worried, talking to another worried man in a suit.

"I've seen this coming for a couple of years now," he says, finishing his coffee. He gestures at the bill to his friend. "Can you claim this back?"

People are still eating lunch, and they are still drinking coffee. But the mood on Collins Street is tense and harried, and a stroll though the Paris end confirms multiple empty tables at some of the pricier lunch venues. Southbank is quieter - just a few tables occupied at some big-name restaurants. A flashy new noodle bar hosts just a handful of patrons.

This is, we are told, a record-breaking crisis, a perfect storm, an era that draws comparisons to the beginnings of the Great Depression - in the US, at least.

Yesterday, the Australian market dropped another 5%. It was a huge and savage drop, even by current standards. And although the Reserve Bank's startling 1 percentage point cut to the cash rate on Tuesday relieved borrowers, it betrayed just how worried the RBA is about the economy. Worry spreads. Consumer confidence has plunged.

Yesterday, at lunchtime, salespeople stood idle. Security guards/door openers were poised just inside the luxury retailers, waiting for shoppers who were nowhere to be seen. Store after store was near empty.

There were more people milling around in a department store's men's wear section, but many seemed to be working there. One salesman adjusted a sign, another carefully wound a tie around his fingers. Fifty faces, all of them cardboard and all of them Megan Gale, encouraged shoppers to get a new credit card (the interest rate, according to the website, is 20.49%).

As the lunch crowd exited the so-called citadel, the banker and broker-heavy 101 Collins Street, some were ranting about the markets, and some made fatalistic jokes. Some walked out alone looking stressed.

Acquaintances nodded hello, in mutual near despair. Outside, smokers stared into the middle distance.

Many people had their heads down and walked while poking at BlackBerries - admittedly, not so unusual at this end of town. But one was so distracted he didn't notice both shoelaces flapping around dangerously.

Normally, at this time of year, the denizens of 101 would be looking forward to hefty bonuses, and nearby shops would be bustling with women buying hats, shoes and dresses. Not so now. The only shops that were bustling were the reasonably priced chain stores, and cheap and cheerful Degraves Street was buzzing.

The gaming floor at the casino was busy enough, though, the pokies chirping and beeping efficiently. Signs warned gamblers to set a limit and not exceed it.

And the Collins Street cafes were doing a brisk trade in flat whites for groups of worried business people.