"Don't blow a gasket"

Srsly. "Don't blow a gasket." That is now part of my actual doctors' orders. Yes, doctors, plural.
I got the sutures in my head removed yesterday, while finding out I have some cranial blood flow issues, that aren't caused by my heart, although can adversely affect my heart and the mechanical valve. Another round of tests next week, more pills, bed rest & off my feet - never up for over 3 minutes at a time, as little stress as possible *snort* and in the meantime, "don't blow a gasket."
Uh huh.
Is that a clinical term?
I have cats and a dog. I have recipies dancing in my head that beg to come to life (chai cream truffles & a cake pie!), laundry that needs to be done, a house to be taken care of, a lawn to be mowed, 5 books that need to be proofed so I have little things like water, electricity, food...
So, I'm trying to do life in 3 minute increments, with 30 minutes rest in between. 1 cat, Rags, totally gets it. My cuddlemuffin. BratCat is...as advertised. Geo doggy NEEDSTOPLAYMOM and I'm here in a big old pile of guilty trying not to blow a gasket. Logically, I know if I drop dead of a blown gasket, nothing gets done. And with my supersniffer, I can tell I have that smell. The one I had most of last year. The one I get when something has really malfunctioned in my body. The one I smell on people who are deeply ill or dying, that no amount of bathing or deodorants or perfumes can cover. The scent of fundamental unwellness that is a better alarm to me, and the few like me with a sense of smell that makes a bloodhound quit his job in frustration, than all the lab tests in the world.
It's whispering to me, but now it's saying, "Don't blow a gasket."