Either we're expecting an insane amount of snow tomorrow or I'm (not-so) quietly losing my mind. :-)
Anxiety is not a word that enters my frame of reference often. But occasionally, that clutching feeling begins to grab in my chest. I've experienced it only a handful of times in last half dozen years... It lasts a day or two and almost always precludes a major storm system moving into the area. One of the many facets of aura in a migraneur. (I actually find it strangely fascinating ... )
It's a foreign sensation - knowing rationally that nothing is wrong and yet having your body tell you that danger is imminent, that doom is impending. To have almost no control over it. (I've heard some women describe moments in pregnancy this way, too.) Such an incredible feeling of disconnect, I want to laugh. It's as though someone has stripped my semi-logical, capable consciousness and stuffed it inside the instinctual bundle of nerves that is a skittish kitten. (Then vigorously chases said kitten with a vacuum! This is why I don't do drugs. Can you imagine? :-) And my brain goes at the incorrigible speed of anxious thought.
So I grab the cutter, plow through the fabric stash and begin to break something down to its basic elements. Cut. Sew. Cut again. Sew some more. All the little messy pieces become something else. They bond. They organize. They grow into one solid beautiful whole. Press out the wrinkles. Straighten the seams. Breathe. Feel the warm, flat, neat fabric beneath your fingers. Sensory pleasures subvert the misguided instincts to flee. Creation triumphant. Therapy in stitches.
Cut. Sew. Press. Repeat as needed.
I feel so much better now. :-)