the bluebird of well managed anxiety
1. no one is watching Amy was in town last weekend, and it was so nice, so easy to pick up where we left off, in the way of old friends. At one point, AK said something about my anxiety. The other day, she’d mentioned how poorly I had handled the uncertainty of apartment-hunting five years ago, and I’d balked. Did she really think I was still that person? Yes and no, she said. Now, I said, “I’m really much less anxious now. I reserve my anxiety for like two things.” Amy called me out: “Are you less anxious, or do you just distribute your anxiety differently?” Some people talk about the fearlessness cancer creates in its near-victims. It’s true that I am acutely aware of all the things that won’t kill me, and am accordingly blasé, maybe even too much so: losing my job, writing a story no one likes, offending someone, disappointing someone, not making the bed in the morning. But the fine print in this fearlessness contract—at least for me—states that in lieu of worry...