The Panic

OMG. I actually did it.

I wrote it all down and hit send to the universe.

No draft folder.

No “maybe later.”

Just publish.

The feedback was immediate. Some people think I have something going on here. Others think I’m having a nervous breakdown.

For the record: I am not having a nervous breakdown.

I’m having what’s called an epiphany.

Everything I wrote is everything I lived. Everything I wrote has been looping in my head for years like a motivational podcast I never subscribed to.

Instead of hitting replay again, I decided to write it down.

Apparently that’s alarming.

Within 24 hours I was ready to publish again. Not because I had something profound to say.

But because I wanted the hit.

Ah. There she is. The addict.

Because here’s the inconvenient truth — the high came back. That floaty warm “I matter” sensation. The same one work used to hand me with a calendar invite and a crisis.

Except now it comes with likes. And comments. And “you have something here.”

Dear God, does it feel good.

To share. To make people laugh. To have someone say “I relate.”

It’s intoxicating. And that’s exactly why I need to slow down.

So naturally I checked the view counter.

I told myself I wouldn’t.

I checked it.

80 views in one day.

Not bad. …Right?

Cue the spiral:

Is that enough?

Should it be 10,000?

Why not 10,000?

Who do I think I am?

Who do I think I’m not?

My brain is doing CrossFit again.

Then came the negotiation with myself.

“One week between essays.”

Maybe five days.

Four feels productive.

Three is bold.

See? This is how it starts.

Respectable author or content vending machine?

The uncomfortable truth? I don’t want to write just to be read.

But I also very much want to be read.

There it is. The ego. The hunger. The very human mess of it all.

So instead of finishing a novel by 9 p.m. I laced up my shoes and let the treadmill humble me. Hard to overthink your existence when you’re gasping for oxygen.

This is growth. Growth looks like wanting to sprint and choosing to walk.

Because this time I am not chasing applause.

I am building something.

And if I do this right, the high won’t own me.

I’ll own the pen.

See you next week.

And no — the next essay will not be titled “She Finally Lost It.”

We already handled that arc.