It cannot be killed.
I had a dismal and superbusy week at work but now, on this Friday afternoon, exhausted, I survey what's left to do... and it looks almost bearable, almost like I may have a non-awful afternoon, mayn't have to break a sweat and risk going permanently crosseyed with rage and stress... BUT too many horrormovies, Nth minute decapitations, the short story with the penultimate page twist or heart-halting revelation, the vanquished assassin sitting suddenly upright behind our frazzled, wheezing and unaware hero/heroine, have like totally inoculated and soured me against sudden and relaxing calms, against apparent success materialising from the gloom, and therefore I eye this p.m. with suspicion and remain in a heightened state of squirrel-like hypervigilance.