I'm not stressed. I'm really not. Stop looking at me that way. I realize my cuticles look like tiny crime scenes. And that I'm asking my undereye concealer to do the impossible. But sterile hands are not silky hands, and the odds of adding Clorox wipes and ground beef to your online Publix cart are decidedly better at 2:00 a.m. than 2:00 p.m. Still, feeling what resembles anxiety but couldn't possibly be because all that's being asked of me right now is to park my ass at home when others are splitting ventilators, I pick up my treasured copy of Allie Brosh's "Hyperbole and a Half." It was a book I'd bought a loved one when she had confused generalized anxiety disorder with nervous self-pity. She needed to know her anxious feelings were legitimate in the absence of a "reason" and independent of the gravity of others' worries. I'd heard Brosh's blog had a cult following, garnering particular mad love from those living with anxiety and depression. And her book - a generously-curated volume of candid posts paired with her hallmark crude illustrations (that triangle atop cartoon Allie's head is apparently a ponytail) - delivers a narrative that will leave you awash in empathy, gratitude, and explosive giggles. You can't really put your finger on why; it's weird and haphazard that way. Just go with it, and go forward feeling your feels. As for me, I'll keep plucking my hangnails and auto-waking in the wee hours to order the quarantine staples that may or may not actually show up in cootie-covered bags at my door. But, seriously, I'm not stressed.