Sometimes I want to slap myself because I’m such an anxious pessimist that even when someone gives me good news, I can’t help but try to find a negative in it.

Case in point: Today we had a survey done on the flat we’re buying. It’s actually a bit late in the day for surveys since we’re almost at the point of exchanging contracts, but frankly we didn’t want to pay for a survey before we were sure we had the mortgage—but we also didn’t want to sign the contract without having had some sort of survey, so a survey it was.

I was stressed out about getting the survey done quickly, but the surveyor was kind enough to squeeze us in before Christmas, and he offered to call straight away with the results so we didn’t have to wait for the written report. I got the call this afternoon, and it was nothing but good news. The surveyor said he’d looked at lots of flats in that area (all of which were built around the same time, in 1900 or so) and this was one of the best he’d seen. He reckoned the owners had put a lot of work into it, and the only faults he found were really minor things which in many cases wouldn’t even be mentioned in a written report.

It was a big thumbs-up to going ahead with the purchase, which was a real relief. I felt delighted when I got off the phone…for a grand total of 20 seconds, until the anxious, irritating little imp that resides at the back of my mind, the glass-not-only-half-empty-but-also-about-to-fall-to-the-floor-and-smash-into-a-million-pieces part of my persona, kicked into gear. When the surveyor said he’d looked at lots of houses in the area, does that mean lots of people are selling up and moving away? If this was one of the best flats he’d seen the area, does that mean it’s surrounded by decrepit hovels? Did he really get a good look at the place, or did he miss some glaring fault? And so on and so forth, ad infinitum.

This is what it’s like to live inside my head. For every weight that gets lifted off my mind, there are a million other weights right underneath it. Never mind that a member of the Royal Institute of Chartered Surveyors has just assured me that our future home is in good condition and worth the money we’re paying for it. Never mind that people buy and sell houses left and right all over Brighton all the time, so surveyors get a lot of work in every neighborhood (from my front window alone, I can see 4 “for sale” or “sold” signs). Never mind that after months of stressing out about the mortgage, things are finally falling into place and we are on the brink of owning our own flat with a little garden and a fireplace and everything. No, I just dwell incessantly on everything that might go wrong. I swear, my brain is like a hamster wheel powered by the world’s most neurotic rodent.

I reckon this is yet another control freak thing. I think I’m under the impression that if I give serious consideration to every possible negative scenario—no matter how remote the likelihood of it actually happening—then I will be mentally prepared for anything and everything. If I’ve taken every potential disaster into account, then there can never be any nasty surprises. In fact, the very act of considering all of these theoretical catastrophes might be enough to stave them off to begin with. Right?

Yeah, right. What’s really happening is that I’m not letting myself enjoy the good times because I’m constantly dreading the bad times. All I can say is thank goodness Jeremy 1) is a resolute optimist (or at least not prone to pointless negative rumination) and 2) has the patience of a saint. If he didn’t keep telling me not to stress about this house thing (and every other damn thing) and reminding me that life is good, I think my neurotic hamster brain would get the best of me.