I keep having that panic feeling, like I’m in over my head.
I sit there, listening and giving the impression that I’m engaged, focused. But inside I’m envisioning myself bolting from the room, running out to my car and driving away with a cloud of exhaust trailing behind, like a scene from a lame comedy.
I smile and ask questions that I hope don’t reveal the insecurity I keep trying to swallow away. My stomach churns from the effort.
I assume they are assessing me behind our conversation, as I am them, noting every cue through word or mannerism that might disclose the possibility of failure.