It’s a phenomenon that occurs when you have way too much to do, or a scary task on your to-do list.

Instead of actually tackling the task at hand, anxiety makes your insides seize up and forces you under a blanket to pretend the outside world doesn’t exist. Instead of being productive, you’re just going to rest your eyes for a few minutes. Or a few hours. Maybe the rest of the day.

This is exactly what happened when I landed a pitch that I was completely thrilled to have accepted.

It happened twice, in fact: once for a piece that was going to be in print (my writing would physically appear in ink, on paper, that you could buy in a store. That’s a pretty big deal these days!).

The second time was an assignment for a big site that paid serious, professional money — the kind of money I’d never seen for writing before. Ka-ching.

As freelance writers, we spend a lot of our time discussing the best way to contact an editor, the art of the successful pitch, the perfect time to follow up, what to do if you’re getting ghosted, and so on.

But what do you do when you finally hit the jackpot?

After spending months telling myself that once my pitch was accepted, I’d be golden, I was getting the horrible sweaty-palm realization that the hard part was only just beginning.

What was I doing? Why did I sign up for this?

My brain had been hyping it up for so long that my typing fingers were freezing up at the thought of producing a single word. I slithered further into the dark comfort of my bed. Blissful, blankety safety.

Obviously, this is no way to live or write, so tackling the panic became priority number one.

Here’s how to avoid your own panic nap and fulfill your destiny of being incredible, A+ gig-landing writers.

Feel the fear, then do it anyway

Allowing yourself a little time to wallow is by no means overly self-indulgent. If you’re feeling anxious, don’t ignore it.

“I’m in the midst of this now with two different pieces and I’m still in panic/imposter mode,” explains freelance writer Cindy Lamothe.

“I’m sort of letting myself feel the fear first and take a self-care time out to even out the anxiety. Then I will probably research the hell out of each publication, trying to understand the aesthetic of the writing and the overall structure of related articles.”

Remember that old saying: If it’s not scary, it’s not worth doing.

Be afraid, and then get to the grind with some good old-fashioned hard work.

Know your worth

Remember, when you get picked to write a piece, your name wasn’t drawn out of a raffle.

Fellow freelancer Ana Gotter explains how she coped with a bout of anxiety: “I told myself that I got the assignment for a reason, and I likely beat out plenty of other extremely qualified writers in the process.”

“And then I took a deep breath and do what us Type-A personalities do best,” she continues. “I made a checklist and mapped out a way to get started, breaking the assignment down into manageable, less-scary chunks.”

Impostor syndrome is a fearsome beast, but always remember it wasn’t sheer dumb luck that got you this far.

You know what to do next.

Go back to your pitch

Finally, it’s the first part that’s often the hardest. Turning the ideas in your head into a well-crafted piece of writing is no mean feat, let alone when you’re hyped up to produce your magnum opus of a feature.

Reduce the panic to a simmer by throwing out the idea of writing anything entirely new.

Instead, just flesh out what you already have: your pitch. This is what sold your idea in the first place, so it’s definitely made of winning material.

Copy and paste your original pitch into a fresh document, plus any editor’s notes you received, and start building on every sentence.

We’re used to trying to keep pitches snappy, but what else would you have said if you had no word limit? How would you flesh out each sentence, and where were you thinking of taking each idea?

It’s a little stream-of-consciousness, but soon enough you’ll have written out a few chunks that can act as the framework for the rest of your writing — even if you end up deleting these half-formed nuggets.

And, if none of this advice works, fake it until you make it. The beauty of email exchange is that no editor can see you sweating on the other side of the screen.

As far as they’re concerned, as long as you keep it cool and professional, you’re the A-grade writer they’ve always dreamed of working with.

Just make sure to set an alarm so your panic nap doesn’t eat into your deadline.

Have you ever fallen victim to the panic nap? How did you recover and get back to writing?

In a fervent attempt to become a “real writer” (chews pen thoughtfully, staring off into the middle distance), I’ve recently made an effort to stop pitching listicles.

No more will I churn out numbered posts detailing the lies you tell yourself when you’re procrastinating. Or the best ways you can fake your way through a carefree summer. Or X thoughts you have when you’re marinating in a lukewarm bath.

I took the plunge a few months back and plugged my brain in to come up with some real ideas. Much to my surprise, I had some success.

“Sure,” replied Ms. Editor, “If you can get it to me next Monday. At least 2,000 words.”

Oh. What have I done?

I can’t write anymore. The thought of producing 2,000 well-structured words, with flowing narrative and continuity, makes me sweat.

No one says, “I want to write listicles when I grow up”

Here’s the thing: back in the day, I used to be able to write. Really write. Words gushed out, unstoppable.

At school, I would play tricks on the teachers by pretending I’d been to incredible places on vacation. I hadn’t. I just had a knack for description and an overactive imagination.

But then came the internet, and with that came online writing: writing that feeds instant gratification with funny-sharable-chunkable pieces of writing.

So when I graduated from college, back in the day when I didn’t have access to resources like this, I turned to the most accessible and lucrative form of professional writing one can find when one is the sort of person who sleeps with their smart phone under their pillow.

I began my career of churning out listicles.

I could talk to you all day about listicles. I can tell you why I never choose a round number for my list of items, or the psychology of why listicles work so well, or the best themes that will get the most shares.

But now I find I can’t bloody write anything real anymore. My brain has softened over the years into a weak, gurgling pulp that can’t fend for itself.

So I made the decision to start all over again. Self-inflicted writing rehabilitation.

Surprisingly, it’s been less painful than I thought. Not pain-free, mind. But the number of times I’ve wept into my laptop have been fewer than I anticipated.

If you also intend to wean yourself off the internet’s favorite content fodder, take a few tips from me:

1. Plan longer pieces in sections

The brilliant thing about writing listicles is that you can make them as easy to write as you want. Since it boils down to assembling a snappy pile of chunks, if you want to throw any notion of structure out the window, you can.

It’s like the new sitcom that recycles the exact same formula from the sitcoms of yore. Yes, it has less integrity as an artistic product, but it’s still a fully-functioning show that has everyone slapping their knees. Cheap, but it continues to reel in the viewers, and every writer knows it’s hard to not be lazy when you know you can get away with it.

Reverse-engineer this way of thinking. Plan your next feature the way you plan your listicle: in chunks.

Two thousand words split into eight sections is 250 words per section. Any old chump can write 250 words, right?

Then, when planning your piece, consider that two of those sections will be an introduction and a conclusion. Now you have just six sections you need to conceptualize.

If your brain is anything like mine, it feels a little less panicky when faced with one small chunk to tackle at a time, rather than that hefty 2,000-word dragon.

Don’t forget to make your writing time as productive as possible, too.

Bonus tip: Allow yourself slightly under the word count for each section and then you have a little breathing room for ‘glue’: sentences and segues that pull each section together, magically turning it into one cohesive piece.

2. Make it snappy

Before you throw the baby out with the bathwater, know that you don’t need to abandon everything you’ve absorbed during your stint as a listiclemonger.

Listicles teach us more about human behavior than any other form of writing. The age of the listicle indicates a psychology that has a short attention span and is greedy for content, but is equally demanding about what it consumes.

To keep our petulant, infantile attention-spans happy, make your writing as snappy as possible. Don’t let a large word count trick you into thinking you can use half-hearted filler. Make every word count.

Even printed longform gets broken up with jumbo pull quotes and punctuated with bold headings or images. Depending on your medium, don’t be afraid to call on these weapons to keep readers engaged.

3. Embrace the awful first draft

You’ve heard this tip before, and I dedicate it to anyone who’s written anything, professional wordsmith or not.

Write a bad first draft. Let it be terrible. Relish in your ugly baby as you painfully tap it out, word by clunky word.

Every good writer knows their first draft will be far from perfect, so stop wasting time agonizing that you’re not good enough and that everything you’re typing is garbage.

Just because you’ve been living off listicles does not mean you are unworthy of producing something utterly beautiful and transcendent.

Wipe the sweat from your brow, turn off your manic inner-monologue, and slowly begin writing your little heart out. I promise you I can think of 27 reasons why you won’t regret it.

Have you ever found yourself in a writing style rut? How did you work your way into a new genre or niche?