On my first foreign holiday for six years I’m in a generous mood. Hospitality here puts the UK to shame, where you rarely get even a clean table. Everyone except the English is multilingual. Everywhere is accessible. My daughter participates in Greek dancing and games after the disco. She learns to swim underwater. I’m euphoric.

Stuffing my face, splashing about and sipping cocktails in the sunset, the cloak of anxiety has shifted. I can acknowledge how panic, guilt and dread has pervaded every aspect of my life recently.

Dread of the pet scan the day before we leave. Postponed twice then delayed, six hours of starvation and eight hours of not being allowed to touch my children. Saved only by my husband bringing me 4am porridge and my mum clearing her diary.

Dread of getting up early, missing the flight, forgetting something important. Panic about leaving the cat, getting home safely, doing the washing. Guilt that my daughter is missing her favourite week at school.

Panic, guilt and dread have been constant companions. But the unintentional digital detox of my broken phone means I start to stop fretting. I stop drinking after the second cocktail and stop feeling guilty about going to bed at the same time as the children. I don’t have to do anything. I still worry about what’s waiting at home but know that all I should be doing is relaxing.

The day before we return home I almost cry choosing my pancake sauce. WHAT IF I CHOOSE THE WRONG ONE ?!?! Dread returns, but eases swimming lengths in the pool. I need to figure out to carry this peace in my heart away from this beautiful island to my daily life.

Back home. Everything sorted. What on earth was I worried about?!