The Postscript

Edgar's picture

I get anxious, as I might have mentioned.

While I don’t think it’s anything requiring medication, fortunately, I became aware at middle-age that I have always had a sort of “hum” of anxiety going on in the background. I usually only notice it when it stops—like when the refrigerator has been running nonstop and you only notice when it falls silent.

Anxiety has not always been my enemy. I am almost never late. I never miss a deadline. I lie in bed and obsess about everything I’ve written to everyone so I don’t make a lot of careless mistakes. None of this is especially bad.

I suspect my anxiety was pretty darned useful when my ancestors were living on the savanna, watching out for saber-toothed tigers. My ancestor would have been that hyper-vigilant one, sitting on the edge of the campfire, thinking to herself, “Is that a tiger or just a shadow?”

 

 

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