I snap out of the panic attack, I open my laptop, and I write about it here.

The world became too quick and too loud.  I covered my ears with my palms.  A little pressure was enough to drown it all out—the faint thump of my kitten’s paws hitting the hardwood, the air thumping off the fan blades, and a sonata of white noise.  Oh, but Sam’s voice was insistent: “Luz, where are you?”

I wanted him to shut up, so much I pulled one hand from my ears to press my finger to my lips.  I endured the painful noise to make it stop.

I covered my ears again.  The sound of my heart seemed to pulse loudest at my earlobe.  It was soothing.  The sound reminded me of the heartbeat newborn animals have: a too-fast, too-loud sound to be echoing inside such a small body.  It made me want to crawl out of my skin.  It made the idea of limitations sound like a cruel death sentence.

I’m frightened at the prospect of what that means for my sanity: I hold myself to the highest level of achievement, and I am convinced that anything less than that degree of perfection is pathetic and meaningless.  I struggle every day with my feelings of failure and deception.  I feel I’m lying to people, telling them I’m capable, telling them I’m normal, pretending to be—whatever it is they need me to be at that moment.  I feel like a chameleon.  I feel like an impostor.

…

I snap out of the panic attack, I open my laptop, and I write about it here.