Playing With Panic

For months Charlotte and I have been preparing for our piano exams. We've spend hours and hours on the piano stool, hammering away at the keys. Now, all of a sudden, the exams are upon us. There's exactly one week until the Big Day. And frankly? I'm terrified.

I've never been a fan of exams. Just thinking about them is enough to make me nervous. I hate the feeling of someone judging me and my performance. And having someone sitting there, as unemotional as a brick, writing on a piece of paper, is enough to make anyone scared. Well, almost everyone.

Charlotte doesn't care about exams. She sits quietly outside, reading a book, walks blithely into the examination room, plays her pieces, takes her envelope, walks out, and resumes reading. She's not even faintly curious about her result. Nerves of steel? I should think so.

Now I know the exam is almost here, I'm have fits of panic. I worry so badly about failing. I imagine forgetting my carefully memorised pieces, of not being able to answer the questions, of not even being able to sing an interval. In short, I'm a nervous wreck.

But, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't really matter if I pass or not. I'm not hankering to be a concert pianist. I won't died if I don't get a good mark.The world won't end if I mess up a piece. So why worry? Even if I play horribly, it's not a true representation of what I can actually do, of how good I really am.

So, when I step into that exam room, will I be as calm and confident as Charlotte? No, probably not. But I will be safe in the knowledge that I'm loved, no matter how bad I do.