Equity recently held a conference in Blackpool. Glancing down the agenda, you would have had little difficulty working out that this was the annual gathering of the UK's showbusiness union. There was a debate about the death of variety acts, the accelerating speed of TV credits was lamented, and unsanitary conditions backstage were listed in lurid detail.

But top of the agenda was the credit crunch. "Our members have the same worries as every other working person in this country," said Christine Payne, general secretary. "Will they be able to pay their mortgage or rent? Will they be able to pay off their student loan? Will they be able to find work?"

The two million people who work in the UK's creative industries are more vulnerable than ever, she said, outlining such threats as the collapse of ITV drama, cuts in government subsidy, fewer small venues as pubs and clubs close, burgeoning internet piracy – all grim news for anyone hoping to carve out a career at the coalface of professional entertainment.

With all this bad news around, how are the class of 2009 feeling about their futures ? What are their hopes and dreams? More immediately, what will their next steps be as graduation looms? I spent a day with four students at the Royal Scottish Academy of Drama and Music in Glasgow, Scotland's only performing arts conservatoire, to find out how the actors of tomorrow are coping with the hurdles of today. About to graduate from the three-year BA acting course, they hope to follow in the footsteps of such RSAMD alumni as Alan Cumming, Daniela Nardini, James McAvoy and David Tennant. Right now, they're in the final furlong, doing public performances of their two graduation shows. In weeks, they'll be out on their own.

When we meet over coffee in the academy's cheerful red-brick building, they all seem positive enough. Joshua Jenkins, a good-looking 21-year-old with a Welsh drawl, smiles when I mention the r-word. "We're all aware of the economic climate," he sighs. "A lot of agents have said that they're not taking on as many clients because of the recession. Which is horrible. If we'd graduated a year earlier, everyone would have an agent."

Jeremiah Reynolds, a softly spoken American from Missouri whose beard makes him look older than his 23 years, agrees. "A lot of people have had to think really hard about whether this is what they want to do," he says. "It's a big commitment to say that maybe for the next couple of years I'm not going to get a lot of work. But if I left now, and I didn't do acting, would I be happy? The answer is no. There's no way." They all shake their heads.

Even in boom times, of course, actors expect to be unemployed: as many as two-thirds may be out of work at any one time, says Equity. Most mix stints of performing with freelance work, much of it off stage. This can be very worthwhile: a lucrative ad can pay enough to see you through six barren months, while a few days of film or TV can make a huge difference to anyone on Equity's minimum rates (£375 a week for small venues). But contracts are rare. And since the demise of traditional repertory theatre – regional producing houses that supported British actors for whole seasons at a time – job security is practically unheard-of.

So, the students tell me, everyone does what they can: attempting to get exposure, building a profile, grabbing work where it's available. But you can only control so much, and it's difficult to worry about something as immense as a recession when all you're doing is, say, trying to get an agent. (Two of the students here have one; everyone seems wary about the subject.)

Graduation shows are an important factor: there are plenty of grannies waving in the audience, but there are paying members of the public, too, and the Scottish press attends. But by then, the real window of opportunity has passed: the "showcase performance", when the entire year traipse down to London to perform for agents and casting directors. For the academy, this happens in February, nearly six months before graduation. Each student gets just three minutes. It is a brutal experience, even by the goldfish-bowl standards of performing arts colleges.

"You can see them writing, making notes," says Melody Grove, a dark-haired 24-year-old from Kent, with a serious, focused air. "Flipping through programmes," says Reynolds. "Looking at your headshots," adds Grove. "It was awful. I hated it." Reynolds massages his beard. "It takes away from the feeling that this is an art form, something you're passionate about. It puts you in cattle-market mode."

"They're shopping," shrugs Grove. "You're product. You might as well say, 'Hi, I'm Melody, this is my face, this is my profile.' It doesn't matter what piece you're doing."

She does seem to have a point. Alongside the photos and biographies in the showcase programme, there are vital statistics (height, build, eye colour) and "special abilities" (swordfighting, dancing, horse-riding). It looks like a dating agency profile, or even a mail-order catalogue. Credit-crunch special: hire one actor, get one free.

The path to success – or otherwise – is made longer by the fact that most drama students are forced to wait several years before getting into college. The academy's acting course has just 22 places and receives over 900 applicants. Grove had an agonising three-year wait. "I applied to four or five schools in London after A-levels, didn't get anywhere," she says. "My second year, I got on the waiting list here, then had an offer from LAMDA (London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art), but didn't want to take it because it was a shorter course." She exhales. "Glasgow's a really vibrant city, there's so much theatre going on. I haven't regretted it."

For Helen Mackay, a cheery 23-year-old from Thurso, it took three years as well, but chiefly because she wanted to stay in Scotland. "I remember them asking at my audition whether I was putting all my eggs in one basket," she says. But her mind was made up. "I would rather audition for 10 years than train somewhere else. Either I got in here or I didn't become an actor."

Michael Simkins, an actor and writer in his 50s who has starred in Foyle's War on ITV, recently suggested on the Guardian's theatre blog (not wholly as a joke) that people of his generation needed just two things to survive in professional theatre: a copy of Shakespeare and a good lounge suit. The new generation need more strings to their bow, however. The academy has worked hard to turn them into rounded performers, but also gives them plenty of professional guidance en route – the acting course covers everything from fencing to finance, clowning to contracts. What transferable skills can the class of 2009 bring to the marketplace?

"Tap-dancing," says Jenkins.

"Juggling," says Grove.

"Playing guitar," says Jenkins again.

"Singing," says Reynolds.

Mackay – who had, she reveals, a lucrative gig dressed as Tweetie Pie in a shopping centre – suggests a more imaginative alternative, running workshops for kids. Good idea, Grove says: many children's projects have funding to die for. The academy encourages students to set up their own companies, write plays – and not sit around waiting for the phone to ring.

What about corporate gigs? Mackay screws up her nose. "Hmm. One of the medical colleges was doing a film for people who were pregnant, and I had to play someone with postnatal depression. The script was awful, and the director was a midwife, but I got a lovely cheque at the end. And I thought, 'You know, I've learnt something.'"

"Not to do it again," laughs Jenkins. Mackay flashes him a look. "Yeah, but why not," she says. "As long as you're keeping your creativeness bubbling. I think that's the most important thing."

I wonder if they are prepared to do something Equity frowns upon: act for free. The consensus is yes, at least for the moment – even considering the amount of debt they are all in. As a foreign student, Reynolds pays £11,500 a year in fees alone, then there's living expenses – all of which will leave him a hefty £40,000 in the red. At the other end of the scale, Mackay, as a Scot, pays no tuition fees and supports herself with money earned in a call centre.

How about on stage? Are there any no-gos there? "As far as nudity goes," says Grove, "we get email alerts coming through for short films. A lot say, 'Would have to be comfortable naked.'" She gulps. "I'm not prepared to do that." Not everyone agrees. Jenkins is open to the idea ("as long as it's justified in the script"), while Mackay says she'd far rather shed her clothes for a play than do an advert for McDonald's.

There must be plenty of other anxieties about embarking on an acting career. What else preys on their minds? "Never settling down, never feeling that I'm sorted, not being able to have a family," says Reynolds. "That I get forgotten," says Grove. "In this business, you have to keep reminding people you exist." Jenkins is more pragmatic: "Once these jobs are finished, what's my next job going to be? The worry of never working again."

But, they all insist, there's little point in being depressed. There's plenty to look forward to. Reynolds fancies the idea of taking a show to Hong Kong, while Grove's horizons are closer to home – she's looking forward to a stint at the Edinburgh festival. "I want to stay in Scotland," says Mackay. "I'd like to have done a Taggart show within the next two years – it's a rule here." She pauses and turns serious: "For me, it's about taking off from the pack – being set free. You just never know what's going to happen."