Hi, Anxiety

I'm just a girl standing in front of the publishing industry asking it to love her.

I’m a person who is comprised of roughly 99.3% anxiety. It’s something I’ve learned to live with, like lower back pain or chronic dry mouth.

An exclusive look inside my nervous system.

But recent events have tipped my high-functioning consternation up an additional 0.6% and left me clinging to the last 0.1% like Rose DeWitt Bukater on that damn door that was definitely big enough to hold two people.

You see, after 561 days of consistent work (but who’s counting?!), yesterday I finally queried my debut literary novel to agents in hopes of finding representation. Meaning a portion of my manuscript is officially Out There in the internet ether, waiting to be analyzed by highly subjective eyes. This in itself is enough to rouse me, palpitating and sweaty, every night at 3:00 a.m.

Add to it the fact that signing with a literary agent could take months or (shudder) years. That it could never happen. And even if it does, that it’s no guarantee my novel will ever sell to a publisher. The stress is, frankly, gut-crushing. I curse myself daily for choosing a profession that’s driven me to madness and therapy in equal measure, but—alas—I write because I can’t not. Coincidentally, that’s also why I anxiety.

Knowing what I know of the querying and publishing process, have I prepared myself for any and all outcomes? Of course (see: sentence one). Do I understand that things are largely out of my hands at the moment? Yep. Will I do my damndest to control an uncontrollable situation, regardless? You know it!

Here’s an in no way comprehensive list of everything I’ve done in the past 24 hours to keep myself from hitting refresh on my email inbox every six to eight seconds on a loop until the end of time (or an agent responds to me; whichever comes first). Perhaps it will also mediocrely serve you in moments of existential unrest.

1. Wrote this newsletter post (congratulations: you’re all officially accomplices now).

2. Took a long drive listening to my (ever-updated) car playlist.

3. Spun in a circle 10 times whenever I reached for my phone, rendering myself too wobbly to hold it for at least 30 seconds. Repeated until nausea overwhelmed.

4. Hiked on the trail by my cottage while listening to You’re Wrong About.

5. Laid on my back in the yard while listening to Spooked (confirmed: true ghost stories are less unsettling than my current situation).

6. Dizzied myself in a revolving door of comforting content by flipping between Hallmark Channel holiday movies, Gilmore Girls episodes, and Ted Lasso.

7. Sat in the front field with the sheep (when asked for advice, the flock’s matriarch responded by chewing a corner of my winter coat. I’m still unpacking that one).

8. Paged through my pressed flower book in an attempt to summon a time of year when the air didn’t hurt my face.

9. Attempted to remember the choreography to Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up.” There was much “oh, oh, oh” knee-knocking and scant else. Seven-year-old Katie weeps.

As you can see, every second thus far has been a struggle. I find myself counting down the minutes until I can crawl under the covers and leave another day in my mentally exhausted dust. It feels wrong to wish away time like this. Or maybe it’s just a natural side effect of the ambitious human condition. I really can’t be counted on to tie this one up with a bow at the moment, y’all—did I mention I have anxiety?