Anxiety...

...or is it panic? Regardless, it has been attacking me relentlessly since early January.

Frankly, I always classed "anxiety attacks" with those made-for-TV "syndromes" that irritate bowels, give people problems sleeping or otherwise bug them, and can be cured by the little blue/pink/red/purple pill the ads try to get people to bug their doctors for.

I do know what the common symptoms of anxiety attacks are, though, and I've lived with them for more than 50 days straight. It's no faux disease, Jim.

And please don't tell me to go to a doctor. My medical insurance (a/k/a checking account) won't allow it.

I've been working like a madman this year (and in November and December, for that matter), and have earned enough to stop the tidal wave of sewage that is about to engulf me.

No, make that: I would have earned enough, had payments arrived as they do for workers in any legitimate business. Thanks to the joys of "payment-on-publication" (and sometimes uncertain publication dates) plus the editor of a magazine that is about to cease publishing not letting me know the news before I began initial work on several articles that he would neither be accepting or paying for, I am, as we literary types say, screwed.

Well, there's a more appropriate term, but it's not family friendly.

Attempts at horizon-broadening have borne no fruit. I've found that while I might be interested in doing new and better things, the number of those willing to hire me to do said things is hovering right around zero.

The fact that I am just over a month away from hitting the big five-eight and most companies prefer younger -- and cheaper -- employees might have a little to do with that.

To be honest, I have simply run out of ideas.

A few people -- including one very good friend -- have known about the impending crash for a while. D., the photographer, thinks all I need to do is keep working on the shit articles based on old photos he pulls from his files and sends en masse to editors. The fact that clients who fall for these elderly images -- when any do -- are the same ones who underpay/late-pay with sickening regularity means nothing to him. His girlfriend pays his bills, and more.

Others, who have long called on me for freebies, don't seem willing to exert themselves when I'm the one looking for advice and contacts that might put me in the way of reliable employment.

From this, I can only conclude one of two things: a majority of the people I know are, at best, fair-weather friends, or I am simply a worthless lump of dung who doesn't deserve their time or concern.

I tend to think the first answer is correct.

But, especially in the past few days, I have come to put some credence in the second....

Aside from the discomfort -- both mental and physical -- this year has brought so far, I have been forced to cancel my trip to Detroit next month to see my friend R. perform in concert. It was the one just-for-me thing keeping me sane. R. did not take the news very well; he was looking forward to our reunion as much as I was.

I should be angry. Instead, I am simply too worn down to feel any emotion at all.

That's a good thing, actually. Considering the traumas the next few days and weeks may -- probably will -- bring, numbness may be a blessing.