The writing of fiction, when it is going well, is an exercise in joy, in figuring out how to love the world, at least imaginatively, with the illusion that yes, imaginatively, you can encompass and understand its entirety. An illusion, to be sure, a too brief illusion. Yet that, the imagination, is what is best about us as a species. Or best, most agonizing, most destructive. Fiction can net at least some of this.
my therapist taught me to start thinking of my anxiety as my panicky friend