NEW YORK—When I was younger, I was required to participate in regular music recitals in the piano and cello at my lower school. I’ll never forget the nerves I was braced with the morning of each performance, imagining myself horrifically off-tune to Beethoven, and forgetting the music I had taken so much time to memorize.

The jitters continued and magnified throughout the day, until after dismissal rolled around, when they proceeded to turn into a full-blown panic. My legs would become shaky and my knees morphed to Jell-O. Palms, usually warm and dry, turned slick with a cold sweat.

I have always been an anxious person. I fall asleep at night making a list of things I should worry about the next day, and I can barely eat before I take tests—or when getting them back. But since setting aside my cello bow and classical music career, and coming to Harvard, I have rarely had to confront such situations of individual performance that make me black out with fear. Oftentimes, at 21 and a full foot taller than I was at age 10, I think I’ve matured from the days of nearly running away from my instrument.

***

The security line at 100 Centre Street is full of New Yorkers finishing up bagels, sipping iced coffee, and typing on iPhones with conviction. They are real adults, in a disruption from the routine of everyday life.

When I dress to leave for jury duty, at an hour far earlier than my college-adjusted body clock is ready for, I cover my knees with a long skirt and pull my hair back into a neat bun. I am playing pretend as an adult, reporting for civic duty on a day when I’d typically sleep in and spend my time on yoga and frozen yogurt.

In the waiting room, I fiddle with my red-and-white summons, mishearing the directions and tearing it apart incorrectly. I sit between an older woman, who continues to serve despite her eligibility for an exemption due to age (75), and a chatty younger woman who hates her job so much she actively wants to be picked. The courthouse is eons dirtier than even my unkempt and much-abused suite bathroom in Cabot, and I eat flavorless dumplings for lunch next to a table of cops.

***

I am called to voir dire for an assault and attempted murder trial. As I enter the courtroom, I realize this is the first one I’ve ever been in, and the closest I’ve come to the criminal justice system recently is binge-watching the first season of “Orange is the New Black.”

When I find out that the trial is expected to last at least two weeks, I try to reason with the judge to excuse me then. I insist to him that this won’t work since I have to start my summer internship the coming Monday, and he tells me he will call my boss.

The place occupied by Juror No. 10 is vacated three consecutive times; first, a former cop is easily dismissed, while the next candidate knows a party involved in the case, and a final juror does not speak adequate English to participate in the trial. I am called for the seat.

As I approach the juror’s box, a panic grips my entire body. My legs quake and despite the arctic temperature of the room, my face flushes and reddens. I can’t remember the last time I had to speak into a microphone, especially in front of a room of dozens of adults whom I do not know, and immediately my voice becomes shaky as I speed through the questionnaire, staring into my lap. Suddenly, I am 10 again, wearing penny loafers and a plaid jumper, near tears in the seventh floor bathroom at school.

I am excused from the trial, and absolved from jury duty for the next six years. I leave the courthouse while the sun is still high in the sky, put on my sunglasses, and skip uptown whilst finishing the bag of sour candy I had stashed away in my purse all day. Maybe being a child isn’t so bad, anxiety attacks and all.

Cordelia F. Mendez '16, a Crimson sports chair, is a history concentrator in Cabot House.