It's happening, it's really, really happening.

This is the first time my worries have burrowed so deeply into the pit of my stomach that I feel like I swallowed a giant rock.

Having spent a really lovely morning with Lucie Berjoan et al., a splendid afternoon with Ben Bruce, and a nostalgic evening with Ryan and Sharrie (and Nehemiah, the crawlmaster 3000), I am finally back in my apartment and feeling more than a little spastic.
My core is all wound up and my limbs feel like itchy Jell-O. I can't seem to achieve any sort of relaxation much less focus.
I want to start sorting through my books.
I want to practice packing and make sure I have enough room for the necessities.
I want to go to Soul Night and enjoy an evening with my friends.

But I feel like a bird who just sipped too much champagne: it's only a matter of time before my innards inflate and explode leaving fizzy stains all over the walls and floor.

I keep trying to calm myself, to reassure myself that everything is working out incredibly well, to soothe the tension out of my bones.
Maybe I just need to stop.
To be silent.

I don't even want a cigarette even though that's supposed to be the immediate go-to of a stressed habitual smoker.

Deep breaths.
I need a lot of deep breaths.