I was going to post about this afternoon’s panic attack, triggered by the realization that there are suddenly only two months to Bouchercon and I need to figure out transportation—my car, Rocinante, is starting to disintegrate—and what to pack and send in my check for the awards dinner—if I decide to go because all my clothes all make me look like a civil servant who changes printer toner for a living—finish revising Pigeon, get plastic surgery, grow my hair out, and transform myself into someone who doesn’t mind going to a strange city all by herself and will keep calm and poised in the presence of her favorite authors, all of whom are real people who all once stood where I stand, yes, but, oh God, whatever you do, don’t forget deodorant . . .
And then I found this:
I listened to it three times.
One cannot panic to Bach’s cello piece. One can only stop, listen, and breathe.
And then move on.