That’s my ultimate goal: to be able to manage panic by myself, without outside help, be it human or pharmaceutical. The power is inside of me, somewhere. I just need to find it.

Should I be paying attention to my body or trying to dismiss its faulty signals? I had no idea. This is the greatest struggle for us panickers: separating the signal from the noise.

I woke up and immediately became aware that I couldn’t feel my left leg. At all. Whatever wacky sleeping position I’d gnarled myself into while rolling around in a burrito blanket on the living floor had cut off circulation to my leg.

Here’s the catch: when you distract yourself from panic, you also distract yourself from panic’s slow retreat.

How do you cope with the sting of having a panic attack after a long period of panic-free living?

You know that an evil clown might jump out of the closet. You know that a sudden burst of evil laughter will probably pipe out of an overhead speaker. You don’t know the precise nature of what’s about to scare you, but you’re anticipating something — anything — nonetheless.

I could have used a good hug on the night of my own first panic attack, so I was ready to dole out dozens, if needed, for her. If I couldn’t give hugs, I could at least lend an ear and some advice.

It was raining, and I was feeling panicked. The sky was dark. Target’s front doors, let alone the pharmacy counter itself, were uncomfortably far away. For a few minutes, I sat in silence with the car running, unsure if I should even attempt to walk inside or if I should play it safe and drive away.

But on a serious note, I think the concept of Penelope’s “panic-anic attack” brings up a great point: panic breeds panic.

College: cheap fiberboard shelves, neon clothes hangers, drawstring laundry bags, and extra-long bed sheets. And futons — crisp and clean futons that, by the end of the school year, will reek of days-old beer and mildew. Oh, and stress. And anxiety. And panic.