Ten things to freak out about just before pub day (in case you're in danger of feeling good about yourself)

Oh no, you're climbing to a new career high--better go ahead and set the airplane on fire!

One: your cover art is bad.

Why did you ever approve that whimsycore font? Are you Mary Engelbreit? Is this 1994? To say nothing of the clunky subtitle, the random sunflowers everywhere, the hand-drawn fountain in the corner that looks so much more phallic than you realized.

Oh God, oh God, oh God. It’s too late to do anything now, but you should panic about it anyway.

This freakout is entirely about the cover, of course. It’s pure last-minute aesthetic revelation. There’s no chance that what you’re feeling is in any way related to that lifelong dogfight snarling away inside you, the one between longing and terror, roused for another round of throat-ripping howls every time you realize you’re about to be seen.

NO, WANDA. THIS IS ABOUT THE PENIS FOUNTAIN.

Two: other authors are getting more attention than you are.

Tour dates, reviews, “new and notable” lists in the NYTBR and Washington Post: other people are getting them and you’re not. At least not yet. Reviews can make a surprise appearance at any time, and who gets them at all is an increasingly arbitrary matter, but not for you. For you, it’s personal.

This is a sign, isn’t it? You’re going to sink back under the water without ever having been noticed at all. The lifeboats will rescue your rivals, but not you. Bye-bye: You’re a failure. You’re a failure. You’re a fai—