You can always start over in the kitchen

I’ve had nonsensical episodes of anxiety all my life. A nauseating fear of flying lasted all four years of college. Secret office bathroom panic attacks dogged me as a young reporter when I covered breaking news where people died. Recently, a two-year jag of insomnia came on without warning and abruptly stopped when I moved my mom, who I’d been caring for, into assisted living. I’ve been to plenty of therapy but the causes remain broad — something to do with the architecture of my brain when it comes to responsibility, death and feeling inadequate in the face of things I can’t control. It always crops up without warning.

Few things please me more than cooking, in particular making big dinners in restaurant kitchens, but the last few years, for reasons I can’t explain, every time I step into the noise and heat of a busy commercial kitchen, my chest tightens. When I approach a stove, the fun drains out, replaced by a feeling like my hands won’t work and a deep…