Before, there's the accumulating anxious anticipation which I experience similarly to an oncoming physical threat (bear attack, say). Then it's a continual, dire test of impulse control, the psychic stress of which renders me barely able to participate in even the most ordinary interaction and which seems oddly (especially for me) unaffected by the thigmonastic responses I am generally receiving (though I'll concede that that perception may be inaccurate - I've been very wrong about it more than once before). After, there's the withdrawal which is basically out of a horror movie. (Reminds of Dave Barry's joke that babies are only ever in 1 of three states: about to cry, crying, or just finished crying.) Experimentation confirms that the enforcement of stringent regulations on the chronological surface-area, alone, has any chance of keeping me sane.