I've come to dread those free floating anxiety episodes. I'm in one right now and I don't think I've ever written(apart from private journaling)openly during one.
I've no idea how long it will last.
It was a brilliant day. My fourth writing workshop this afternoon went really well, a big class, excellent assignments turned in, word is out there so visitors pop in for some sessions and also comment privately on the quality of the participants' writing. And I love conducting it.
Daughter (who attends) gave me lots of baking and cooking out of her trunk to take home with me and we then laugh as we find we've each been invited to the same house for dinner. Which was lovely. Another friend there gives me her special frozen soup to take home. I won't have to cook for days it looks like.
Chimney Man PMs me to tell me my parts are finally in, it took well over two months for 7" stove pipes to be found anywhere, there were certainly none on the island. The reason I know this is that others have been whining also. Our power bills were through the roof (no pun intended) waiting for them. Wood stoves save a whole wad of cash.
So all is going well, right?
So I bury myself in the Kimmy Schmidt series and I still feel that pit of the stomach thing which won't go away.
And I slap myself upside of the head, metaphorically, and it won't go away.
And I look at my dog and I worry. I look at all the legal papers that I had to sign yesterday at my lawyers. And I worry.
I listen to the rain outside. And I worry.
See?
There's nothing at all to worry about but I'm caught by the throat and I hope it won't be one of those endless nights.
I just hate those.
