Tomorrow is February 1st. Normally, February 1st is not a date that sets my heart pounding out a nauseating rhythm, nor does the mere sight of the mailman approaching my box cause me to break out in a cold sweat. But that was me, last year.

Last year, full of high hopes, I applied to graduate school to finish my master’s degree, and last year, on February 27th, I was devastated by the letter I received informing me of my rejection (see previous post–you’ll recognize it by the black border…)

Being a resilient and persistent bugger, I reviewed my application, my skills, my writing samples, and spent several months acting the Bionic Writer (Better. Stronger. Faster.) Where there were gaps (the GRE), I filled them; where there were weaknesses, I addressed them. I revised, and revised again, my writing samples. I got myself published in national magazines. I participated in workshops, I took classes, I devoured writing books–all in the name of presenting a stronger, more compelling application this time around. And then, I took the ultimate leap of faith, and sent off my second-round application.

Last year, I wasn’t half the candidate I am this year, so I should be more confident than I am. Last year, I didn’t have a GRE score to share. Now I do. Last year, I had no publishing history. Now I do. Last year, I spent less time and care on my writing samples. This year, I poured blood, sweat, and tears into them.

Last year, the rejection letter said that the competition for the twelve open spots they had was intense. But what will it be like this year? Shouldn’t reason alone tell me that this year it may be even more intense?

Last year, I tried and failed. Last year I was devastated. Last year, I received the most disheartening and distressing rejection letter I have ever received. What if I fail again? That is what has begun to awaken me at odd hours of the night as February 1st approached, those two awful, terrifying little words: What if? What if. Between those little words and tomorrow lies my whole future, and I can no longer deny it: those two little words scare me to death.

There: it’s out now. This year, in spite of my renewed determination, in spite of the colossal effort and care I put into preparing for a second run at acceptance, I am frightened. I see the calendar flipping desultorily over to February–it doesn’t really care whether I get accepted or not, after all–and my heart starts to pound in my chest. I see the mailman stopping at my box–Is he lingering a little longer than usual?–and I forget how to breathe.

I look at the upcoming anniversay of my last rejection, and remember the crushing disappointment I felt when I read the letter, and my hands start to tremble.

Now, I know, in the rational part of my brain, that they were right to reject me last year. I was not as strong a candidate as I should have been, and the competition was intense. I know that that utter devastation I felt didn’t kill me–it propelled me forward, made me a better writer, a stronger candidate. It distilled to the fiercest, most brilliant and intoxicating moonshine my determination that that letter would not, simply would not, be the end of me as a writer. And it wasn’t.

So why, then, if the rational part of me knows all of these things, am I reduced to a pathetic, quivering blob of gelatin when I contemplate being rejected again?

Because fear, my friends, is not a rational thing. It is animal, it is base, it does not respond to logic or coaxing or bribery or comfort (nor to alcohol or vast quantities of chocolate–I’ve tried.) And I am afraid: deeply, wondrously afraid.

And so, tomorrow is February 1st. And I wait.