I am nervous.
Will they like the new ideas I have? Do they think I am too young for this position as the youngest ever President in the group's history? What if I forget something? What if I get up in front of them and just freeze?
The silence and shadows of the wee hours feed my fears, growing them into howling monsters inside my mind. The monsters chase me around in circles. Tossing and turning in my bed, I rise, looking for something to distract me. I need an escape. My feet pad across the cold tile floors with a soft swish. The office light switch flips on with a small fleck of my finger. My computer sits waiting on my desk. Its steady hum reassures me. I open the document for my current work in progress.
My fears dissipate like smoke leaving a chimney stack. I have found solace.
Soon an hour has passed, I have another revised scene, and my mind is now at rest. I remember now why I joined this group, why I agreed to take this position. My ideas are good, though not everyone will like them. Young is irrelevant with my experience. I have an agenda printed up on fresh white paper so that I will not forget anything. We all wear name tags so we can remember each others names, even when nerves have us forget. If I freeze, again, I have an agenda.
I yawn, stretch, and go back to bed. What a fabulous night to be a writer.