At the (long) tail-end of the pandemic, the rest of the 10th season of The Walking Dead resumed airing and I found myself undeniably un-inspired. I didn't really care much for The Whisperers and after they bumped Rick Grimes off and then carted him away on a helicopter, the show sort of fizzled. I couldn't figure out what was missing (besides Rick) so I decided to go back to the beginning and watch the whole thing again.

Panic, like worry and fear of the unknown, is an emotion that simply does not serve us very well.

I love The Walking Dead for a lot of reasons. But here’s the reason I’m so loyal to it:

When I was nineteen years old, committed to the psych ward, sitting across from my first psychiatrist, Dr. Bolan, he explained it to me. He told me I had a panic disorder (a diagnosis that subsequent psychiatrists haven’t necessarily focused on but one that seems to encapsulate a big part of my problem). He compared my brain to a house with many rooms, all of which had a light switch to be turned on when something worried me. As he explained, most people can turn the light on and then, when it was no longer needed (i.e., the thing that worries you is gone), they can turn the light off. People with a panic disorder cannot turn the lights off once they get turned on.

SPOILERS FOR THE WALKING DEAD AND THE UNITED STATES!! ONLY READ FURTHER IF YOU ARE CAUGHT UP ON BOTH AND YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT WILL HAPPEN NEXT!!

The fact that in all zombie stories, we are the zombies seems to get lost in the tales of the survivors. We are the masses of unthinking, brain-eating undead creatures shambling about looking for the living. Next season, I hope they give the hordes of flesh connoisseurs access to a zombie Faceborg and the allegory will be updated.

• Few things bring me greater relief than deleting The Walking Dead from my DVR.

• Update resume.

• Do the best you can not to panic and shit the bed any more than you already have this month. You’re beginning to stink and are flinging your own shit everywhere.