The last day of my first marriage exploded into a final siege of screaming and hollering, doors slamming and two ears speeding down the driveway, each in search of a demilitarized zone. The silence that followed was the kind that comes when night duty is wide-eyed and protracted. I woke up the next morning feeling tired, crazy and evil. I drank two cups of black coffee and headed off to work, because that's what tough sisters do. Little did I know that my weary mind was about to betray me.

That evening at the Metro station I boarded the subway for home. Hemmed in by wilted commuters, I began to feel dizzy and uncomfortably light-headed. My heart started racing, perspiration dripped down my face, causing my glasses to slide, and I had a hard time breathing. I felt as though I were stuck, trapped by the bogeyman of my worst childhood nightmares. I wanted to flee, but my body was frozen. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going crazy and dying at the same horrible time.

Somehow I managed to get off at the next stop, sit down on a bench and slowly breathe in and out, until that rhythm gradually calmed me. Several trains passed me by. When I finally did board one, I was a changed woman: My three-minute ordeal had marked me for life. I was scared as I rode to my destination, gripping a pole so tightly that there were marks on my moist palm. It's going to happen again, my mind told me. And it did.

I didn't know it then, but at 27 I'd just had my first panic attack. Panic is to fear what a wildfire is to a match. A panic attack is fear of fear, an irrational, out-of-control emotional response to an original panic that even experts can't pinpoint the source of.

Childhood experiences, stress, genetics, caffeine and insomnia can all play a role in dealing with panic disorder. More than the occasional bout of nerves that most people experience, true panic attacks are marked by a predictable pattern of debilitating fear and dread in response to specific stimuli, such as crowds, enclosed spaces and driving on a freeway. Ever since my first episode, I've been vulnerable, and not just in subways.

I've had panic attacks while at concerts, on street corners, in hotel rooms, in traffic. Whenever I think I've conquered the feeling, it simply chooses another space. For years being on airplanes was a trigger. Now elevators are my challenge. In those split seconds when the doors close and the elevator is still, I battle the sensation of being swallowed up and trapped. For a long time I've tried to shake this affliction, to be normal like everybody else. I never dreamed that so many other Americans would become as haunted by the fear of fear as I am.

September 11 changed the collective American psyche as much as my first panic attack altered mine. Since last fall, I've spoken with people who admit that they are plagued by nightmares and worry. One New York manager I know had to let go of an employee who, many weeks after the World Trade Center collapsed, was still refusing to return to her Empire State Building office. Another businesswoman told me that the Manhattan apartment building she thought she had sold fell out of escrow immediately after the attack. Her prospective buyers admitted that they were too frightened to live in the city.

I know the feeling; I avoided subways for months after my first panic attack. And guess what? My fear only increased. In fact, the one guarantee about fear is this: Run from it, and it will find you.

You might say that I'm a veteran of my own private war against terrorism. Since that long-ago day on the subway, I've learned how to dance with fear, which, in a nation now gripped by it, is a valuable skill. As I watch friends and family grapple with war's new tensions, I'm struck by how far I've come. I have by no means conquered the panic that invaded my life all those years ago, but with time and effort I've learned some techniques for coping.

First of all, know that it's okay to be afraid. Of anything. Heights. Dogs. Your ex-boyfriend coming around the corner. The sight of chitlins. I know a woman who'd rather eat dirt than have a pigeon anywhere near her. Women's Movement leader Gloria Steinem has admitted that she was once afraid of public speaking. And it didn't take the Taliban to keep Aretha off airplanes: One turbulent flight way back in the day did the trick.

Everybody is afraid of something. Still, sometimes it's hard to admit that you're afraid. I know that fearfulness didn't fit my image of me. Black women aren't supposed to be scared. We're not immune to judging ourselves by the stereotypes, and the stereotypical Black women the church lady, the ho, the mammy--stand up to fear with faith, street smarts or sheer bulk and mother wit. Many of our mothers and grandmothers have never revealed themselves to us as vulnerable. But despite the many popular images that ignore our humanity, our genes or our past, the truth is that the Black woman's experience in this country has been marked with fear. The journey from the Middle Passage to the corporate boardroom has provided us with lots of scary times.

We just never before had the luxury of showing fear or the least ability to control our environment. Empower yourself. Bad things happen and people get frightened. Last fall Bin Laden's boys invaded our country, stole our airplanes, targeted and destroyed our buildings. It is natural to wonder: Will they do it again? Will the next time be worse? But while pondering those questions, we must also keep our lives from being shut down, our minds from being held hostage. Because so many of us were brought up in religious households, when we're scared we pray for divine intervention and wait. Some of us find that while we're waiting, our anxiety grows.

When I was in seventh grade, one of the big ninth-grade girls began bullying me. She didn't shake me down for lunch money or even touch me. But she stalked me in the halls, on the playground, in the girls' lavatory. The way that buffarilla rolled her eyes and worked her neck in my direction I could feel her fingers yanking out every hair on my head--and I didn't have that much. In class, instead of paying attention, I began to envision the after-school crowd that would gather to watch me get stomped into the ground. Every day my adversary seemed to grow bigger, meaner, stronger. In my mind she evolved from a menacing older girl into a monster. By the time I realized that she wasn't really interested in fighting me--just intimidating me with dirty looks--I was already bruised from kicking my own butt.

The Lord helps those who help themselves. Help yourself by mentally downgrading the outcome that frightens you and preparing for real possibilities. Instead of visualizing my lifeless body on the school playground, I might have seen myself walking home with a black eye. Bad enough, but way better than death. Or I might have spent my worry time learning how to fight or at least improving my sprint time. As our nation continues to be spooked by rumors of anthrax and other biological weapons, nuclear-bomb scares and mounting job layoffs, the first line of defense is to get the facts and turn a deaf ear to sensationalism. The second is to be prepared. If your company is downsizing, rather than succumbing to panic, redo your resume, take a course, put out job feelers. The more you do to empower yourself, the less frightened you will be.

Boldly confront your fear. When I feel panic, I monitor the conversations in my mind, changing the dialogue from one of impending doom to words that are soothing, boosting or even bodacious: Relax. Be. This elevator works perfectly, and you will arrive at your destination safe and sound in no time. You're going to have a wonderful ride.

Comedian Bernie Mac describes how he once had to follow another stand-up comic who moments before Bernie's entrance had been booed off the stage. He sensed the crowd was after blood. The first thing Bernie Mac said after striding up to the microphone was, "I ain't scared of you motherf---ers!" His words got a laugh--and shrank his trepidation.

When you feel fear start to rise, shift your focus. I began conquering my fear of flying quite by accident when I boarded a plane to Togo, West Africa, back in the eighties. I had just buckled up when I felt the tiny prickles of anxiety that are the first signs of approaching panic. I could feel the terror welling up inside me. All I wanted to do was get off the plane, but I couldn't. We were already moving down the runway. I began talking a mile a minute to my seat mate. The more I talked, the less afraid I was. By the time we were in the air, I was completely calm. Although I still strike up conversations when I'm traveling by plane, or even when I'm in an elevator, that incident taught me to bring along puzzle books, magazines, food, anything that shifts my attention.

Be physically prepared to fight anything or anybody. Everybody knows what happened when a poorly trained Mike Tyson stepped into the ring with Buster Douglas. Splat! The scariest man in America lost his title. Dancing with fear calls for mental and physical stamina. I gave up caffeine, which triggers my panic response. Getting enough sleep and proper nutrition and eliminating as much stress as possible also combat the tension of the times, as can exercising and practicing deep relaxation. When I don't have time to meditate, I chill out by inhaling for a count of five, holding the breath for five counts, then exhaling for five counts.

But sometimes these methods fall short and a recurrence is inevitable. On September 11 everything I knew about coping with fear temporarily flew out the window. I was in Louisville, Kentucky, on a book tour when terrorists attacked the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Viewing the carnage on the TV in my hotel room hour after hour, I felt my irrational fear merging with very rational concerns. I was traveling with a friend; Evelyn and I agreed that our flying days were over.

My publisher instructed me to stay in Louisville, but after two days I called and asked to complete my tour by car. On September 13 my Mend and I were driven to St. Louis. The five-hour trip wasn't too bad. Evelyn and I had water, trail mix, magazines. My butt was just a little sore.

The next leg of the journey got serious--St. Louis to Raleigh, North Carolina: 15 hours. No joke. We had a stretch limo for the ride, but a driver whose deodorant had quit on him. As we drove back through Kentucky, my butt was in serious pain. By the time we got to West Virginia, the trail mix was gone, our driver was giving off eau de wildebeest, and Evelyn was moaning.

We made it to Raleigh just in time to make my 7:00 P.M. signing. Thank God, the next morning we had a new driver. Five hours to Charleston, South Carolina. My behind was numb by the time I arrived. I did a noon reading, and when we piled back into the car and drove four hours to Charlotte, North Carolina--our last stop before Los Angeles--I sat on my hands. I thought about how it might be riding on a bus for 3,000 miles. I considered catching a train. I wondered if there was such a thing as a butt transplant. I flew home.

None of us is completely fearless. Those who appear to be brave have simply learned to be comfortable dancing with fear. The rest of us can learn as well. In the final analysis, when things go bump in the night, individuals and nations, too, have got to reach within. Whatever can remind us that we come equipped with resources we can rely on--be it a psalm, a breath or a sore behind--is our blessing.