This morning, I woke in a state of panic. In some dark recess of my mind, I was convinced that I'd done nothing for my exhibition: I had no work chosen, let alone printed and framed, and I'd forgotten to send any invitations for the opening. Worse, I had no money in the bank, my rent was due, and I had misplaced all my psychotropic medications.I was still operating under these assumptions when a journalist rang from Melbourne's leading newspaper, The Age, to interview me. I'm not sure but I think that, when I picked up the phone, I said, "Oh fuck!" instead of "Hello". Somehow, I managed to answer her questions coherently.A few hours later, I felt much better. My reality was different. The images for the show had all been printed and they'd been delivered to my framer. The invitations for the opening night had all been sent. My rent was up to date and I had plenty of money in the bank. I'm still trying to figure out what the hell got into me.I am never much fun to be around a week or so before an exhibition. My mood swings are precipitous, my demeanour as twitchy as a psychotic sniper. Drawing and painting don't help a bit. Usually, the only way I can calm myself is to fuss over myriad logistical details, making phone calls and catching up on paperwork – the dull but soothing organisational piecework that settles my jittery obsessive compulsive mind.