I had enough art for the show. Three panels, not a problem. Maybe another 5 x 7 would not go amiss, but I have two weeks, and I was already thinking maybe I should leave the happy troll home, take it to Trinoc, it's all good. The theme song in my head was being performed by Bob Marley, and for once it wasn't "I Shot The Sheriff."
And then the packet came, with the Anthrocon stamp, and I popped it open, still calm, still mellow, every little thing's gonna be alllllright. And looked. And made a noise, somewhere between "SHIT!" and the horrified squeal of a piglet being squished.
They gave me five panels. That's another sixteen square feet of art I gotta fill.
In my chest, the anxiety creature actually grinned, the smug grin of someone who has been proved absolutely right--I felt it grin, I could almost see the shiny of anxious little teeth in the dark--and then inhaled and screamed like an air raid siren. Its fellows descended from the wings, came shrieking down like hamster-sized versions of the Wild Hunt* and I did my imitation of Dr. Zoidberg through the living room before I pulled myself together.
It's okay. It's a good thing. More art space is good. And I have two weeks. I can do a LOT in two weeks. I can sell more art this way. It's all good. It's a good thing. I can handle it. This is because I made light of my angstless existence, I realize, and thus I am utterly to blame for Fate leaving a hobnailed bootprint on my forehead. I deserve it. I can handle the results.
*Yes, it would be a cute painting. No, I probably don't have time.