I am perched on the corner of the sofa on the porch, but inside my skin I am running around in circles, overwhelmed by all the stuff I should be doing. This is the old clinging to the roof like a flattened squirrel scenario  – wanting to end my agony by just stopping the clinging and falling, but aware that the splat might be painful and lead to me being stretched out on the couch in great pain.

Or is it the purse upending on a windy day scenario – me chasing things flying around a parking lot and into the road, not knowing which piece of paper to trot after next?

I don’t think it’s the chicken with the cut-off head, because that really isn’t a chicken whirling and flapping around the yard; it a headless chicken. The head of the chicken has no sensation of the flapping . . . maybe. I think it would, if anything, sense strong panic and doom. Or as they say in the news venue – closure.

I steadied my nerves with a cold Diet Coke and a crunchy foldover.