What's hard?

I said this morning to M, "I'm sorry I'm all abstracted. I'm turning my mind back toward the Poetics book, and I'm worried for it. Part my brain keeps whispering that I should be in a state of panic. "Only six months," it whispers. I refuse to panic. I'm going to be like this anytime I'm allowed a few seconds to lose focus. I'm worried, and I'm trying to see it before I make it, which never works, so I'm not going to be a very relaxed gal for the next months."

M: "It's hard work slaying dragons. It's admirable. I'm in awe that you're still doing it."

Me: "I just have to get in there and stay in there. And I'm not trying to kill a dragon. I'm trying to birth one."

M: "Even harder. Do you want some coffee?"

Thanks be that I sat on that chair that night with that Guinness to listen to that band and just bumped into this man who gets it, and me, and can calmly and surely look me in the eye and mean by it that I'm going to do this just fine and well and not to worry. Doesn't quite make the scared in spite of knowing I can do this go away, but it's sure a marvel to have him get my back.