Well we’re very excited in the O’Brien household because last night saw the return of a particularly fun family dynamic that we haven’t seen in roughly three years. Yes, Daddy had a nice four a.m. panic attack last night!

Oh the joy! Oh the fun! Oh the shallow breathing and fear of death! Oh the constricting chest muscles! Oh the wonder of being convinced that you will not make it beyond that moment! The sheer enjoyment of rolling up in a ball and realizing, “oh crap!”

Panic attacks are a thing of beauty. Think of your computer as a person and suddenly you start getting error messages when the damn thing is supposed to be turned off. But these error messages aren’t for REAL errors. No, it’s better than that. The messages are coming for errors that quite conceivably could occur. Maybe. It could happen! Really!

Essentially the brain starts going over everything. And I mean everything, from planning your daughter’s birthday part to the cut on the bottom of your toe and how it may get infected and lead to your foot’s amputation to worrying about Warren Zevon’s lung cancer.

Your brain short circuits and just starts a full data dump on you at that exact moment. Fear, dread, and panic set in. It becomes clear to you that everything that you are involved in may suddenly come crashing down into a giant crushing pile of lost commitments, missed dates and loss of confidence.

I used to get these all the time. Most frequently when I was single and living alone. I’d start the shallow breathing, heart racing thing and I’d end up sitting on the floor with my back against a wall hugging my knees until it went away.

Unless you’ve had a panic attack, you don’t realize how bad they can be. You figure that you’ll just calm yourself down. But it doesn’t work like that. You TRY to calm yourself, but instead you find yourself panicking because you can’t calm down. It’s a vicious cycle.

The attacks came less frequently once I got married. Perhaps having the calming influence of my wife nearby helped matters a little. Although I rarely wake her up to let her know that my brain is about to explode and that I’m huffing like a whacked out 14 year-old with a vat of model glue. She wants me to, but I don’t see the point. Why ruin her night’s sleep too? If I really felt in danger, I’d let her know.

When I left publishing, the attacks stopped. Now that I’m freelancing for a publisher the attacks are back. Why? I don’t know. I enjoy deadlines and I don’t think I’m going to miss any. And yet, I had that crushing sense of doom.

What’s the connection? I don’t know. Maybe I put too much on myself. Maybe.

Last night I did wake up my wife because I wanted the damn thing to stop. I don’t have the patience for this crap anymore. Sleep is a premium item and nothing should interfere with it. As she hugged me, trying to help me calm down, she asked what was bothering me. “Everything,” I said.

And that’s the logic of a panic attack. Everything in that moment bears a sense of dread. Including the panic attack. Your brain just zoooooms. There’s no stopping it, the dirty son of a bitch. . .

I’m okay now. I’m listing everything that was bothering me last night and trying to pare down my life responsibilities to the essentials. But I don’t think this is the last time the panic attacks will hit.

Stupid brain. Doesn’t it understand that nighttime is when it’s supposed to concoct dreams about purple monsters and giant foam rubber whales? It’s not the time to freak me out.

I’m just pissed because I didn’t get any sleep. Damn it. Now I’m crabby. Maybe that explains why, when I went to vote today, I told the roving pollster to shove his party up his ass and get out of my face. I don’t even know what he was representing, but he probably deserved it.

That jerk.