It took less than an hour after I posted my Fretty Betty Disorder story to develop a new obsession:
What if the memoir-writing class doesn’t get its minimum of five students? They’d have to cancel. So I’m in, but what if? I’ve had other writing classes cancel at another place.
Now I have a lemony-fresh thought to worry about. What a relief. I must be a stress junkie.
I do fight this. Really. I tell my brain about how popular this class is. It’s always full. There’s always a wait list. It’ll happen.
My brain thinks I’m a chump.