What’s the difference between a dachshund and a hotdog? A gorilla and an ape? Excitement and fear? The first one is pretty easy to figure out. The second is a little harder -- and I am yet to remember what it is. And the third is often downright impossible.

I awoke on a recent Sunday all wound up like an anguished whirly-gig top toy. My eyes sprang open like a jack-in-the-box, my heart walloped my chest, and my veins seethed raptous with energy -- pure, straightforward energy. As I tumbled out of bed in my usual jackrabbit manner (since I usually have to pee), I was quite unsure if that energy was pure elation or pure angst. It could have been the bird chorus out my window (corny as it sounds) or the fact that the sun was actually poking out its head after a four-day monsoon. It also helped my day’s plans included friends, frivolity and poetry on Bleecker Street. But it could have also been that underlying panic coupled with my perpetually lengthy "To Do" list that I rarely believe I shall ever complete by each and every sundown.

I like to think it’s the former.

This is the same kind of exultant excitement that hits when you first get up to perform on stage -- that adrenaline rush that wrenches your gut through your esophagus and is accompanied by shaking, drenched palms and dancing beads on your brow. It can be interpreted as 100-proof elation or 100-proof alarm.

In any event, it makes it hard to concentrate -- sort of like when your birthday is tomorrow or knowing there is a pot of treasures waiting for you around the corner (which is ideally how we should live EVERY day, by the way).

So what to do? The first and foremost is to accept these feelings, however wound up, confusing or scary they may seem to be. Do not -- and I repeat -- try to quash them. Ignoring feelings is worse than not even having them, no matter how confusing the feelings may seem. And if you try to disregard them, they only resurface later, when you least expect it, in some twisted, incomprehensible form and make you do weird things. Attempting to bury feelings is like stuffing sausage through a balloon, trying to plug back the burst of voltage that surges from a subway track. Like mashing Pandora’s riches back into her box. Like trying to fit into a size four when you know damn well you have never been less than an eight -- you get the idea.

And stop asking why. Go with the flow (again, regardless of how corny it sounds); go with the gush; swoop with the surge. Ride the feelings to the hilt instead of denying them. Think of it like a tidal wave and you have one of those fashionalbe Plexiglas surfboards. You can even imagine you put graffiti on it if you like, with grimacing faces and warped depictions of long-lost family members.

It’s all a matter of channeling the stuff. You can use it to its fullest potential, letting it buoy you throughout your day on a fascinating fiber-rich cloud. Or you can do what I mistakenly tried for years, and freak out by this new sense of ecstasy, become purplish-blue with fear, and spend the next 27 hours hiding under your bed with the slats of wood, cell phone recharger and that light blue sock you lost back in March.

Oh, yes, you can also do jumping jacks, high-impact aerobics, or scour the bathroom floor. I used this phase I used for a while until I realized aerobics stink and I can instead channel these bouts of electric energy into incredibly pleasing artwork and writing.