I’ve been experiencing a peculiar somatic response lately, primarily preceding my doctoral seminars. It’s an escalating wave of physiological distress, marked by a sudden, intense tachycardia and a pronounced tremor in my extremities. The episodes typically commence about an hour prior to the scheduled class, peaking as I log into the virtual meeting, or in the rare instances I manage to commute, as I approach the campus parking structure. It's disquieting, almost as if my autonomic nervous system has decided to declare war on my executive function without prior consultation. The most recent incident occurred just this Tuesday, before my post-structuralist theory seminar. I'd already spent the day attempting to maintain equilibrium, having managed a full morning of errands – dry cleaning, grocery run, a quick chat with Mrs. Henderson about her prize-winning hydrangeas – all while mentally rehearsing my dissertation proposal outline. But as 6 PM approached, the familiar constriction in my chest began. My vision narrowed slightly, and a faint ringing started in my ears. I attributed it, as I always do, to a confluence of suboptimal sleep hygiene and a perceived deficit in micronutrient intake. I mean, who *isn't* running on fumes these days? You see the cars in the commuter lane, everyone’s just pushing through. I tried to mitigate the symptoms by ingesting an electrolyte solution and performing a series of controlled breathing exercises – the kind they recommend for reducing acute stress responses. It was ineffective. The tremor intensified to the point where holding my mug of lukewarm herbal tea became a significant motor challenge. My hands were visibly shaking, which is particularly inconvenient when you're trying to project an image of serene academic composure during a discussion about Foucault. I ended up muting my microphone and turning off my camera, citing "intermittent network connectivity issues" in the chat. A plausible alibi, I think, given the prevailing technological landscape. This pattern is concerning, not for the underlying emotional component – which I am convinced is negligible – but for its impact on my perceived performance and the expenditure of energy required to mask it. My advisor commented last week that I seemed "a little withdrawn" during our one-on-one, a subtle indicator that my attempts at maintaining an outward façade of unwavering competence might be failing. It’s an efficiency issue, frankly. The sheer caloric output dedicated to suppressing these involuntary physical manifestations is unsustainable. I keep telling myself it's the late nights, the constant caffeine, the fact that I often skip breakfast because the drive to campus (when I go) means I’m trying to beat traffic, not eat. And then there's the neighbor's recent landscaping project, which involved a significant amount of early morning heavy machinery. It’s a lot, you know? Just... a lot of external stressors accumulating. I considered consulting the university's counseling services, but honestly, the thought of adding another scheduled obligation to my already overextended calendar feels counterproductive. Plus, what exactly would I even say? "My body is betraying me, but I'm fine"? It sounds absurd. It's just… I’m tired. Not in a "I need to sleep" way, though that's a constant. More in a cellular, almost structural sense. Like the scaffolding of my existence is just… fatigued. And the seminars keep coming, and the expectations don’t diminish, and the hydrangeas still need admiring. I just wish I could pinpoint the precise causal mechanism.