My eyes shoot open. 2:19 A.M. stares back at me in glowing green text.

I shift positions, intentionally obscuring my wristwatch. Three hours until the Barcelona presentation. I shouldn’t be awake. It was already a late night of preparation. Any less sleep and I won’t be on my game tomorrow. The entire account is at stake.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I try to will myself out of consciousness. No luck. I feel the familiar tinge of dread spreading through my limbs. “The drive for perfection,” as my fellow investment bankers would say. The beginnings of a panic attack, more likely. What I wouldn’t give for a few days—even a few minutes—of calm.

I open my eyes again. It wasn’t always this way. I remember the orange leaves and the crisp fall air. Tucked away in a coffee shop a few blocks away from campus. Dreaming of writing academic papers and teaching monetary policy to fresh young minds