In bed, I fling my book away from me, and say almost thoughtfully, ‘I’m really, really frightened all of a sudden.’ I can’t tell if it’s the scene I’ve just read about people being buried alive in a mine; the vertiginous feeling I’ve had since lunchtime which I have no way of telling whether it’s a cold in one ear or a pre-stroke event; book deadlines not just whooshing past but sucking me onto the tracks as they race by; the death of my most adored comic writer and performer; or poor sleep patterns and eating habits. Whatever the ingredients of this dazzling cocktail, I’m focusing very hard on my breathing, on trying to force my brain to accept that I’m not really on the edge of a cliff, this aren’t really my final moments. Recognising what this must be doesn’t mean the fear is any less: in fact, this physical sensation is so overwhelmingly like the one bit of childbirth I really liked - knowing when it was time to push, an instinct so clear and true that it felt like an ancient godly blessing - that I’m convinced it must actually be my death occurring, since my body, when it spoke like this before, spoke the truth.
I know it isn’t though. I know this must just be a panic attack - although in 2016, can we not find a slightly gentler phrase than that, please? But it doesn’t stop me saying, ‘If I do die, can you look after the children, please?’ like it would otherwise be something that just slips off the To Do list.
Jack-rabbit-hearting and drop-limbed 18 hours later, I think: I need a warm holiday with a warm pool where I have no deadlines, only bread and olive oil, tomatoes and salt, J and the babies, sun cream and card games. Everyone feels like that, though, give or take the specific company. In the meantime, the baby and I watch this, listen to this, and sleep curled up under a hand-me-down blanket while the world continues on outside.