PANIC ROOM
Panic First, Then Calm Down
Oops, I felt it again
Whenever I embark on a new project, I panic. Full-throttle panic. Panic like get thee to a cardiologist panic. Panic is nothing new for me. My autobiography is called Panic First, Calm Down Later. It’s available everywhere in my brain in a universe I inhabit.
Even though panic is as familiar to me as procrastinating, panic sneaks up like a jump scare. My chest tightens. My heart's four chambers elongate and tie into a cat’s cradle.
My brain yells “Attack!”
If you see me panicking, it’s best to keep walking. I’m not fit for human interaction. Panic would be the perfect time for me to challenge Mike Tyson to a bare-knuckled fight. I might not win, but I’d be a contender.
Panic awakens my inner-sleeper agent, unhinges my madness from my sanity, transforms me into a soldier on the front lines, and waits for the sound of a branch to crack so it can pounce.
I could try to escape panic. I could numb myself with TV or an eight-pack of Popeyes chicken spicy tenders, but why? Panic is fuel for my tank, the catalyst for my creativity, the zoom to my lull.
Panic is my bridge to my creative bravery, a shaky knotted makeshift rope over Niagara but a bridge all the…
