I set off for La Santaneca in the Mission District with the highest of hopes today. Brunch with my friend Stephen, the composer of an opera which opens in Washington DC, this May. After all, everything was right. The morning was bright with sun. Yes, a storm was gathering, the faintest hint of cloud appearing in the sky. Which is, after all, the sort of day one wants, sunny, spirit-boosting weather in the morning, followed by a highly efficient storm front rolling in from the Pacific that would transform everything. The drought would be magically behind. And then a new, sunny day in front of us. Not to mention off to one side.

So there we were, Stephen and I, enjoying quite wonderful Salvadoran food. But I couldn’t get comfortable. My back. My hips. Hard to say, neuromuscular dysfunction being what it is. I had gone for a renewing walk on our redwood deck before, leaning on Jane’s arm. But somehow that wasn’t enough. And besides. I am prone to panic attacks. About what? Well, in this case, about feeling good. Feeling like a successful writer, someone who just got the imprimatur of OKness from a Financial Times columnist, no less. I can’t remember if I’ve shared the boring details, gentle reader. But I can’t remember anything. Being 75 and all.

And why the panic? Well, Jane describes it as the psychic “border patrol.” I have been seeking approval, not to mention publication, for so many years, not to mention decades, and now I have the universe’s greenlight. I could drop dead tomorrow, never see the light of publication, not to mention never see the light itself, and, honestly, feel I had reached the summit. As much as a person is expected to reach. So, panic? I don’t know. But it took me by surprise, as such attacks always do.

I didn’t know Stephen quite well enough to admit the panic part. So I made much of the backache part. Whatever. The idea was to get through this, our celebratory brunch. Stephen has been fighting with the director of his opera, now in production. It’s the sort of problem one wants to have. I plan to have similar problems myself, soon. Although publication is an entirely different matter. Opera, theater, and so on, are team projects. With a publisher, I expect rejection upfront or the actual rolling of printing presses. Nothing in between. Maybe I’ll have a fight about the title. Whatever.

My way of feeling safe after going all panicky, was to get back on board BART, go one stop to Glen Park, emerge into the gathering storm and have a mocha, and no whip cream please, while watching the locals pass. Like the boulevardier I am. Flâneur, as well. In fact, I’m trying to cultivate the latter. No pressure. The occasional blog, and what the hell. Letting life flow. Its currents, eddies and rapids taking me precisely where I want, as well as where I don’t want.

Do I really want to take part in this evening’s meeting of the Climate Action Committee of my synagogue? Answer: no. And yet I will be there. The one forced appearance of the day. And not even that forced, is it? I have a very luxurious life. I am even letting the panic flow. For the first time in my life, I kind of trust in the future. After all, having attained this pinnacle of pre-publication, what is there now but another mocha?