Today it has happened. A wave of panic has hit the shore of my being, leaving seaweed trails of anxiety that spell out “AGH! Only 10 days til you jet off to Adelaide for the Fringe!” on the eroding sand of the otherwise relatively calm beach of moi.
Did you get that?
If so, ten points.
All is well. All will be well.
But while my to-do list is battling it out with my sense of panic to see “who will be the largest of them all?” I am trying to calm myself with thoughts that even if all hell breaks loose, it will be wonderful memoir fodder. This is what I tell myself every time I get worried. It does work. Mostly.
Then my dear friend Rachel emailed me today saying that she too, was hitting panic stations about her own amazing creative undertaking. I replied to her with what in hindsight, I realise was really the best advice I could probably give myself:
“I have no doubt that anything amazing achieved in human history has involved the fear of shitting oneself.”
I kinda want to frame it.