A confession, before we begin: I am a relatively healthy, 27-year-old woman. I am also a hypochondriac.
Not a chronic one — I don’t spend my days obsessively Googling what food groups I should be eating, or how much caffeine a day is too much — but enough that, whenever I get ill, I fly into panic mode. Days where I get a sore throat, or a slight fever, are enough to set me off: the thermometer is located, the Lemsip sourced, and the mental composing of my own epitaph begins.
