In which I very nearly gave myself a panic attack.

We’re still over a week away from loading the shipping container — and we’re at least half packed — but my mind just served up this whole entire OMFG WE’RE NOT READY, WE CAN’T DO THIS, IT’LL NEVER WORK, IT’LL BE A NIGHTMARE thing about moving because minds, it turns out, are stupid.

I mean, it did everything it could to freak me out and make me feel bad. WE HAVE TOO MUCH STUFF, IT WON’T FIT IN THE CONTAINER, WE’LL HAVE TO FIGURE OUT WHAT TO THROW AWAY!!! IT’LL BE A DISASTER, THIS FEELS TERRIBLE AND SCARY, I’M INCOMPETENT, IT’S AN ABJECT FAILURE!

I had to google the dimensions of the box again and look at a bunch of pictures again to convince myself of what I already knew, like, three months ago: without any furniture but the bed, all our stuff will totally fit, plus there’ll be overflow room in the car if necessary.

And fuck, mind, so what if we have to toss something. What do we own beyond the file box with all our papers in that’s truly that important, anyway?

Honestly, the real trouble is that no one wants to buy the couch so we’ll have to figure out what to do with it, and he really needs to sell his desk. (My desk is already mostly apart and can go in the dumpster with his office chair.)

It’s fine, mind, and in two and a half weeks we’ll be snugged up in the ancestral pile surrounded by family and friends.

Stupid mind. Jesus.