I can tell it will be a hard session from the set of her jaw as she passes my chair on her way to the couch. Even before she has had time to lie down, her agitation has affected me. I register the jazzy staccato in her tone, like someone souped up on caffeine. I feel the music before I hear the words. She tries to smile but it comes out lopsided, half of her mouth reaching upward but the rest failing to follow. Her tension has already begun to invade me as she tries to settle. Like a cat about to spring, she seems to be in the air, even while lying still. Her squirm is Yeats’ center that cannot hold.