Recently, I had a breakdown. It crashed over me and dragged me out to a deep, violent sea. I couldn’t eat. Food turned to dust in my mouth. I couldn’t sleep; I woke throughout the night with heart pounding, drenched in sweat, teeth clenched. My mouth was dry, my bowels liquid, my hair came out in clumps. Every sound made me jump. I could not turn down the volume of the noise in my head. I couldn’t have a conversation, couldn’t leave the house, couldn’t get work done. And I couldn’t bear to have my husband see me so incapacitated. I felt like I needed to be committed.

I had the luxury of being able to take some time off work. I found a good therapist and appropriate medication. I asked my husband to go away for a week so I could find my way back to myself.

I thought I would call it a midlife crisis to make it less scary and negative, but there is no dressing it up or making it pretty. I’m not ashamed to call it a breakdown. What I learned from it is so valuable; the lessons came in the nick of time.

I was starting to feel like I could trust my legs to hold me up again when COVID-19 started infecting, spreading, and killing, seemingly indiscriminately, an invisible aggressor.

The world panicked. My husband, a practical, rational person, ordered 15 pounds of dried beans and a month’s supply of cat food. If he was scared, things must be bad.

I surprised myself; I didn’t panic. I, who always expected the worst to happen, who planned for worst-case scenarios and made back-up plans for every contingency, had let go of anxiety.

I am grateful for the lessons from my breakdown. Here they are.

LESSON ONE: Worrying is trying to avoid uncertainty.

Worry is learned behavior that tricks you into believing that if you anticipate every possible eventuality, you can reduce or prevent bad things from happening.

During my breakdown, my mind created and analyzed all the what-if scenarios that could happen: Divorce. Death. Joblessness. Shame. Fear. Homelessness. Insanity. I played out all the possible horrible things that could happen. It made me feel worse. I had to stop inventing escape routes and solutions for problems that did not exist. I had to believe the evidence in front of me and focus on the present reality: my marriage was secure, and work and other responsibilities could survive without me for a little while.

LESSON TWO: Worrying is a habit that can be unlearned.

I had to accept that there are no guarantees that nothing bad will happen. Bad things do happen; there is always risk, always the potential for things to go wrong, always uncertainty.

The uncertainty of what’s happening to us, our loved ones, the economy, makes us worry. All we can do is follow recommendations from trusted sources and make decisions based on evidence. Everything else makes us feel worse.

I learned this habit in childhood. Perhaps always predisposed to worrying, I over-anticipated bad things happening. After receiving fire safety instruction in grade school, for example, I wanted my parents to install emergency escape ladders in every room. I left a pair of shoes by my bedroom window, in case a disaster would require me to run outside in the middle of the night. Constantly anticipating disaster is no way to live happily; the more reasonable version is navigating uncertainty. Rather than always assuming the worst will happen, notice that we have survived bad things before, and we will again.

LESSON THREE: You can stop anxiety by doing things that require focus.

Once the cumulative effects of therapy, medication, and solitude unlocked me from the claws of nonstop panic attacks, I was able to do little present-focused things that broke the relentless, paralyzing worry about what might happen.

Walking, showering, or baking forces you to pay attention to what you’re doing. Taking a walk in the fresh air and sunshine (when it was above 32 degrees in February in Michigan) required me to (literally) watch my step. Taking a shower before bed relaxed me and kept me present in my body. Following a recipe required focus. Noticing smells, colors, sounds, and textures took attention away from anticipating disasters. Drawing, knitting, vacuuming, exercising, meditating—anything that requires you to do instead of think will help.

LESSON FOUR: You can only control you.

I was afraid my husband was disappointed in me for being weak. I was afraid that I would lose my job if I asked for time off. I had to learn I couldn’t control how my husband felt, or how my employer would react. I could not control how others perceived me, but I could take time off from work and I could ask my husband to give me some privacy. I could take the pressure off myself to do anything but make it through a day.

Our lack of control over the pandemic is extremely uncomfortable and anxiety- or panic-producing. One thing we can control is staying home to reduce risk of transmission. We might be able to make masks or charitable donations or entertaining YouTube videos too; again, we can only control ourselves, not the world around us.

LESSON FIVE: This will pass.

I was afraid the panic attacks would never end, that I would always feel debilitated, despondent and damaged. I was afraid to even hope that things would get better. A doctor told me, don’t be afraid to hope. Eventually, there were little respites. Respites turned into hours, then every other day was a good day, and soon I felt like I was on an even keel again.

So, too, will this crisis end. Don’t be afraid to hope.

Amy Goldmacher is an anthropologist and writer. She lives in the Detroit Metro area with her husband and two cats. She is currently at work on a memoir on grief, anxiety and genetics. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter at @Solidgoldmacher.