I don’t suffer from anxiety–at least not in a debilitating way. I’ve never had a panic attack. But I watched Scott have one in 1986. We (he, James, and I) were sharing an apartment–the Silver Bullet–in SLC. He had smoked some pot then had this crazy reaction to it: panting, sweating, and basically freaking out. We thought maybe there was something in the pot, but no one else had this reaction. I sat with him in his darkened room while he tried to breathe. He seemed to be dying. But we didn’t call the ambulance–no one else seemed all that worried, in fact. Why was I? Eventually he settled down and fell asleep.

More later…