The trick is not to panic when the words don’t come. Must remember to breathe; must remember to breathe. Close my eyes. Inhale. Try to think of nothing; try not to think at all. Exhale. Breathe nothing out. Not always necessary to have something. The trick is not to panic. Must remember to breathe.

Breathing is the easiest thing. Doesn’t require doing. “Must remember to breathe” hardly makes sense. I breathe. I am not a humpback whale.

Holding breath is an effort to stop time. Nothing bad can happen if time isn’t moving.

Must remember to breathe. Remembering when I used to lead my girls in that meditation, the one where I would intone, in my best imitation of a yoga teacher, “Notice the space between your exhale and your next inhale. Stay there for a second or more. Notice what comes up.”

I still like that one. Must remember to do it. Inhale. Exhale. Wait. Elongate the waiting. Notice—Are you frightened? Are you peaceful? Has the undertow ceased to pull you, even for a second or two?

Must remember to breathe out. Must remember to not breathe in. Must be a humpback whale and volunteer my breath. Maybe turn off half my brain.

The trick is not to panic. When the words can’t be found. When my left leg tells me it cannot take the next stair without the aid of the right. When my right leg buckles for no known reason. When I know my feet are on the ground but I cannot feel them there.

Must remember to stop time—and the anxiety that comes with it—by stopping breath.

Must remember I am not a whale, and that breath will always breathe itself, return.

Must remember to say I am afraid. If I say I am afraid, I probably will not panic. Must remember the whales. Must remember to breathe.