Take a deep breath.

In for seven, out for ten.

Take several deep breaths.

Seven-ten-seven-ten-seven-ten.

Long breaths, like blowing up a balloon.

Seven… ten. Seven… ten. Seven… and ten.

Five. Name five things I can see.

There’s a clock with a digital screen that winks in and out like a firefly.

It says 7:10.

The fruit on the microwave is bad, not because it’s brown but because there are fruit flies on the edges and I won’t eat anything something else has eaten first.

It says 12:00 and PLEASE RESET CLOCK.

The TV’s on, talking about pesticides in Wisconsin that kill bees but spare the fruit flies.

It says 9:00 in Wisconsin.

The laundry basket’s too full, spilling over with dozens of cotton promises to get it done today, for sure, at least before midnight, because that’s tomorrow but today keeps dragging on.

It says midnight.

An article online says that studying helps the brain expand, but who needs more space when it’s full of moths already?

What time is it?

Four. Name four things I can feel.

There’s a skittery-crawling up my spine as I remember I have to do laundry, and I have to eat something, and I have class tomorrow, and it’s already tomorrow but how can it be tomorrow if today isn’t over?

My heart pounds so hard it echoes up my neck and buzzes in my skull like a trapped fly spinning around the room.

(Why do pesticides kill bees but not fruit flies?)

There are blankets crinkled around me like a shed cocoon, and I feel damp and raw, waiting (begging) for my wings to dry out and finally unfurl, hoping they aren’t too tattered and malformed to fly.

I can’t feel any wings.

Where am I?

Three. Name three things I can hear.

The mini-fridge whirs away in its corner. (I need to eat something.)

The laundry basket rustles as I touch it. (I need to do laundry.)

I tap a pen against the desk. (I need to get up for class.)

I hear bugs. I can’t hear bugs. I hear a swarm of thoughts in my head, and they go EATING LAUNDRY HOMEWORK, buzzing and scrambling over each other to be noticed.

There’s no real bugs. I tell my skin this, but it itches, anyway.

Why am I itchy?

Two. Name two things I can smell.

I smell rotten fruit and old laundry, food I can’t eat and laundry I can’t do.

To wake up for class I need to go to bed and end today. To get to the bed I need to clear off the laundry. To clear off the laundry I need to wash it and put it away. To get the energy to wash it I need to eat something. To eat something I need food that the flies haven’t gotten to.

Who wants to eat food that’s already eaten?

Who wants to do laundry before eating?

Who wants to get up for class without sleeping?

Who wants to sit in a corner at 7:10 because I’ve forgotten how to start the first step to Everything and now it’s fallen apart into buzzing nonsense?

One. Name one reason to come back down from the panic attack.

One reason I want to see and hear and feel and smell my way back, letting the air out of that balloon before all the moths inside burst it open.

…That’s the one I can’t answer yet. When I’m in the middle of a swarm, it all feels like stinging, tearing, bursting.

So I breathe, instead, and the rest of me settles back to earth, not yet burst but deflating all the same. The clock ticks on, from 7:10 to 7:11 to 7:12, and the day passes.

But there’s one wasp-like voice left behind in the dregs, asking:

Who prefers a deflated balloon to one that floats?