Cold and Fugue Season

I am ill. And I hate it.
One thing about people with anxiety is they often think things are dramatically worse than they actually are when it comes to being sick. For instance, if I have some slight abdominal discomfort, I may end up convincing myself that I have some horrid condition that is going to cause me to be violently ill. I panic, and end up really making myself sick.
This time around, I can't breathe. Mom thinks I have bronchitis. I don't know what it is but it's pretty lame. Fortunately, thus far I have yet to have any issues with panic attacks or what have you because of this whole not-breathing thing. And for that, I am very grateful.
Hopefully this won't have too great an impact on the 50-something total pages of papers I have left to write in the next three weeks or so. Perhaps if I catch a second wind, as a friend of mine likes to say, I will be compelled to pick up all the shredded Kleenexes on my floor that my dog has been kind enough to pick out of the trash and partially devour for me. *_*