I heard somewhere that fears are like stray dogs: you only collect as many as you can feed. It turns out that I can feed three. Fears, not dogs. My first fear is well-behaved. It doesn't make a fuss, or keep me up at night, or do anything more than whine softly if I look out of my tenth-story office window. It's a reminder more than an annoyance: the ground [i]is[/i] very far away. It's a smart breed. Keeps you alive. Popular, too—go to an amusement park and count the bench-dwellers. Their friends might lead them towards the coasters, but the leash around their wrist pulls them back just as hard. It doesn't need much feeding. Just stay away from the edge of the bridge, take trains and not planes, don't look down, don't look down, [i]don't look down[/i]. The other two aren't so easy. [i]Throw the spitball,[/i] the second fear would beg when I was younger. [i]Teacher hasn't looked over all day. What if she's forgotten about you?[/i] She never forgot to put me in detention. My boss brings me to negotiations instead. It turns out that management is good exercise for something as insistent as the need to be noticed. It's an intimidating fear, I suppose. Has a bad reputation simply because it's rowdy and bullish. I don't feed it so much as harness it and set it loose, letting it pull me across the organizational landscape. It comes across as confidence in the conference rooms—I bark over my coworkers, clear and loud. Scary? Maybe. What matters is it gets the job done. The noise draws their attention to what I have to say, and their eyes to my self-assured face. If I hold their gaze, I know that they see me. [i]Don't look down.[/i] Beatrice doesn't seem to have any fears. But she does have a chihuahua, and a garden too small to keep it contained. I want to stride up her walkway and tell her that I don't mind helping her chase after Taco when he gets out—that I think it's a funny name and he's a funny dog with a charming owner. I want to tell her that her roses are lovely and I'm rooting for her in her battle against the Homeowner's Association. Because yes, Vintage Olive [i]is[/i] a better color for a townhome than Faded Vanilla or Expired Milk or whatever boring shade of off-white adorns my half of the duplex. And I think she's great for refusing to paint it back, and would she like to go out to dinner sometime? The third fear doesn't have a name. It doesn't need one: all it has to do is chew up my compliments and take a dump on my thoughts. It runs in circles until its leash is tangled around my tongue and I can't do anything but trip over words that should come easily, that [i]did[/i] come easily, just this morning. What makes a garden so different from a boardroom? Beatrice only smiles at me politely, and somehow that makes it worse, because nobody could ever feel ignored with her gaze gently holding theirs. I want to show her that this stuttering mess isn't who I am, that I'm bolder and braver and in possession of a much better vocabulary than the feeble "Hi!" I routinely offer her. But whenever I meet her eyes, the ground disappears from under me and I'm falling. [i]Don't look down.[/i]