No Time to Panic

No Time to Panic Plot Summary

Introduction

In the high-stakes world of television journalism, where poise under pressure is the currency of credibility, ABC News correspondent Matt Gutman built a reputation as the unflinching reporter who thrived in chaos. From war zones to natural disasters, he was the steady presence delivering clarity amid confusion. Yet behind this façade of calm competence lurked a paralyzing secret: for over twenty years, Gutman battled debilitating panic attacks that threatened to derail his career and undermine his sense of self. His panic attacks weren't triggered by the dangers of reporting from conflict zones or disaster areas—situations where he actually excelled—but rather by the seemingly simple task of delivering live reports on camera, the bread and butter of television journalism. The disconnect between Gutman's public persona and private torment reveals a profound paradox: a man who could stare down physical danger yet found himself ambushed by his own mind during routine broadcasts. His journey through panic offers a window into the experience of millions who suffer silently from anxiety disorders, illuminating both the evolutionary roots of fear and the modern manifestations of an ancient survival mechanism. Through Gutman's experiences—from desperate attempts at self-medication to exploration of cutting-edge psychedelic therapies—readers gain insight into the nature of fear itself, the stigma surrounding mental health struggles, and the possibilities for healing that emerge when we finally confront what terrifies us most.

Chapter 1: The Onset: Discovering Panic in a Young Reporter's Life

Matt Gutman's first encounter with full-blown panic came during his senior year at Williams College in 2000. As he prepared to give an informal presentation on his political science thesis about Turkish-Israeli relations, something extraordinary happened in the fifteen seconds between hearing his name announced and reaching the lectern. His heart began to jackhammer as if he'd launched into a dead sprint. His teeth felt loose in his jaw. His vision constricted to a pinhole, and the turtleneck he'd selected for its intellectual appearance suddenly felt like "a pack of feral cats clawing at his throat." Though surrounded by familiar faces in a low-stakes environment—the presentation wasn't even graded—Gutman found himself unable to access the knowledge he'd spent months accumulating. Words emerged from his mouth, but they "were heavy and tasted like sand." Standing stock-still, he couldn't catch his breath. This textbook panic attack, characterized by debilitating fear in the absence of real danger, would become a recurring nightmare throughout his professional life, particularly during live television broadcasts. What made Gutman's experience particularly confusing was that he was otherwise outgoing and achievement-oriented. In his early twenties, when he began working as a print reporter for The Jerusalem Post in Israel, he felt comfortable and competent. But his career's upward trajectory toward television journalism would place him on a collision course with his anxiety. When he started doing live radio reports for ABC in 2005, those familiar symptoms returned—words vanishing from the page, voice cracking, breathlessness. The irony that would define Gutman's professional life was already taking shape: he thrived in genuinely dangerous situations—reporting from war zones, natural disasters, and violent conflicts—yet froze during the seemingly simple task of delivering scripted lines on camera. This paradox of the "courageous coward," as he would later describe himself, became his defining struggle. In the field amid chaos, he soared; during the calm of a live shot, he crashed. For years, Gutman didn't even recognize his condition as panic disorder. Like many sufferers, he dismissed it as "just nerves," unaware that approximately 28 percent of Americans—over 85 million people—experience panic attacks in their lifetime. His shame and confusion kept him silent, developing elaborate rituals and coping mechanisms rather than seeking help for the condition that threatened to derail his career and undermine his sense of self.

Chapter 2: On Camera, Off Balance: Professional Success Amid Inner Chaos

By 2010, Gutman had transitioned from radio to television journalism at ABC News, catapulted into the spotlight after his coverage of the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico caught the attention of Diane Sawyer. Within a week, he metamorphosed from a radio journalist in a satellite bureau to a mainstay of ABC's flagship newscast. The Daily Beast dubbed him "the brow-furrowing newcomer who came up through ABC Radio but has a torso for TV." This sudden attention from press, talent agents, and strangers came with a price: his "nerves" intensified alongside his rising profile. To ward off panic, Gutman developed an ever-evolving routine of superstitions and safety behaviors. He would perform push-ups before airtime, fake napping to meditate, gulp air like a free diver to avoid hypoxia on camera, and even rely on what he called "lucky underwear" purchased in Paris during coverage of terrorist attacks. The irony was that his anxiety-induced "energy" was interpreted by a Good Morning America executive producer as something that "really punched through" to the audience, only ratcheting up the pressure. Throughout his ascent at ABC, Gutman became known for reporting from the world's most dangerous places. He nearly had his foot blown off in Afghanistan, raced through sniper fire in Lebanon, and was held captive by Venezuela's secret police for five days. He swam with anacondas in the Amazon and tiger sharks in the Bahamas, ventured into tornadoes and hurricanes' eyes. This public persona of fearlessness made his private struggle with panic all the more jarring. The disconnect between his competence in genuinely dangerous situations and his terror during routine broadcasts created a cognitive dissonance that deepened his shame. Each successful live shot delivered a delicious dopamine hit that left him craving more, while each stumble reinforced his growing imposter syndrome—the feeling that his success was fraudulent, that eventually he would be exposed. This psychological tug-of-war made each broadcast feel like "climbing into a boxing ring with the knowledge that a physical battering lay ahead." Gutman almost never turned down an assignment, and his managers rewarded him by sending him everywhere—each new location requiring more live reports. He especially dreaded what should have been "easy" live shots—simply standing before a camera offering a single thought in a couple of sentences. Their brevity came with an expectation of flawlessness that left him holding himself so tightly that he'd "walk away from the camera with Frankenstein stiffness," his lower back aching and waistband dampened by sweat. Success in television journalism, he concluded, depended on sustaining a daily mirage, one he feared would eventually be revealed as illusion.

Chapter 3: The Breaking Point: When Performance Anxiety Becomes Crisis

On January 26, 2020, Gutman's long-feared reckoning arrived during a special report on the helicopter crash that killed basketball legend Kobe Bryant. During a live broadcast, Gutman experienced a panic attack that led to a significant reporting error. This mistake, committed during a story of national mourning, became his professional nadir—the moment when his private struggle with panic burst into public view. Within days, ABC News suspended him for a month, and headlines about his error propagated across media outlets worldwide. The suspension plunged Gutman into a period of intense introspection and isolation. He retreated to Alaska, seeking respite at a sled dog kennel near the Arctic Circle. Even there, his state of mind remained precarious. During a solo hike at Denali National Park, he found himself trapped in deep snow as darkness approached, confronting the very real possibility of becoming "a human popsicle." The fear he experienced then was clarifying—unlike his panic attacks, this was fear serving its evolutionary purpose, sharpening his senses and helping him find a way to safety. This juxtaposition—between panic's false alarms and fear's vital function—became a turning point in Gutman's understanding of his condition. When he returned to Los Angeles, the stigma of his public mistake still fresh, he began a serious exploration of panic's origins and potential remedies. He started with conventional approaches, consulting psychiatrists who prescribed various medications: antidepressants like Paxil, anti-anxiety medications like Xanax, even ADHD medications like Adderall and Strattera. None fully addressed his panic. What began as a crisis became the catalyst for transformation. Gutman's suspension gave him time to research panic disorder extensively, connecting with experts in evolutionary psychology, neuroscience, and anxiety treatment. He learned that the fear of social rejection that underpinned his panic was not a psychological aberration but an evolutionary adaptation—our ancestors' tribes were essential to survival, making expulsion a potentially fatal outcome. His body wasn't malfunctioning during panic attacks; it was responding exactly as designed to a perceived existential threat. The breaking point that Gutman had long feared and finally experienced became, paradoxically, his liberation. With his career in jeopardy and his secret exposed, he was freed from the exhausting effort of maintaining his façade. The catastrophic event that he believed would end his career instead became the first step toward a different relationship with fear—one grounded in understanding rather than shame and avoidance.

Chapter 4: Evolutionary Roots: Understanding the Biology of Fear

Gutman's quest to understand panic led him to explore the evolutionary origins of fear itself. Through conversations with Stanford researcher Robert Sapolsky and other experts in evolutionary psychology, he learned that the stress response that triggered his panic attacks has ancient roots, stretching back approximately 500 million years—predating even the dinosaurs. While fear is old, worry is relatively new in evolutionary terms. Dinosaurs experienced fear but lacked the capacity for the follow-up thoughts that humans know as anxiety or worry. The great apes, including human ancestors, developed a crucial innovation roughly 20-25 million years ago: they got scared sooner. By recognizing threats in advance, they could move to safety before being chased, avoiding both predators and the ancillary risks of a panicked retreat. This was an evolutionary advantage; it enabled not just survival but planning. About 5-7 million years ago, as early hominins branched off from great apes, they developed the capacity for abstract fear—the ability to be frightened by the mere thought of danger rather than its immediate presence. This capacity for anticipatory fear proved incredibly adaptive. Expending a little energy on anxiety to avoid a lion is far more efficient than expending hundreds of calories running for one's life. Over millennia, humans became "worrying savants," their ability to anticipate threats contributing to their survival and eventual dominance. However, this same ability created vulnerability to false alarms—responses to threats that exist only in imagination. Evolutionary psychiatrist Randy Nesse helped Gutman understand that the human brain prefers a thousand false alarms to a single missed threat. "This is perfectly normal," Nesse told him—words that brought immense relief. Gutman's panic attacks weren't evidence of personal weakness or psychological damage but the consequence of an alarm system working exactly as designed, if sometimes overzealously. His social anxiety—specifically, the fear of judgment during live broadcasts—triggered the same survival mechanisms that once protected his ancestors from predators. Gutman came to see that anxiety, which can both protect and torment us, represents a maladaptation similar to the peacock's elaborate plumage—a trait that once conferred advantage but eventually became excessive. Just as peacocks' ostentatious tails make them more vulnerable to predators but more attractive to peahens, human anxiety may sometimes harm more than help while remaining stubbornly embedded in our genes. This evolutionary perspective transformed Gutman's relationship with his panic. Instead of viewing his attacks as evidence of brokenness, he began to see them as the product of ancient survival mechanisms responding to modern social threats. This knowledge didn't eliminate his panic, but it destigmatized it, allowing him to broker "an uneasy truce" with his brain and begin exploring more effective approaches to management and healing.

Chapter 5: Chemical Solutions: The Search for Medical Relief

Desperate for relief from his panic attacks, Gutman turned first to pharmacology, a path that had offered him some comfort in the past. After a reporting stint in Iraq in 2003 left him unexpectedly depressed, he had been prescribed Paxil, an antidepressant he would take, with a few breaks, for the next eighteen years. Though effective for his general mood, it never fully addressed his panic attacks during live broadcasts. Under the guidance of a Los Angeles psychiatrist specializing in anxiety disorders, Gutman embarked on a pharmaceutical odyssey. He tried Klonopin, a benzodiazepine commonly prescribed for panic attacks, but was alarmed by its amnesiac effects after an episode where he completely forgot boarding a connecting flight. He tried Xanax, which offered temporary relief but left him lethargic and still vulnerable to panic. Propranolol, favored by performers for preventing physical symptoms of anxiety, slowed his racing heart but did nothing for the brain fog during live reports. The search continued: gabapentin, an anticonvulsant meant to reduce "abnormal" brain excitement; Strattera, a non-stimulant ADHD medication that caused debilitating insomnia and digestive issues; even Adderall, which helped his focus but did little for panic. Each medication came with side effects, from sexual dysfunction to weight gain, insomnia to digestive disturbances. None provided the comprehensive solution he sought. Gutman's experience reflects a sobering reality about psychiatric medication: no one quite knows how these drugs work. According to a groundbreaking 2022 study published in Molecular Psychiatry, the long-held "chemical imbalance" theory of depression and anxiety—which suggested that mood disorders result from deficiencies in neurotransmitters like serotonin—lacks convincing evidence. Many medications were developed decades ago, with pharmaceutical companies often "marketing old drugs for new purposes" rather than pursuing innovative treatments. Even more concerning, Gutman learned from psychiatrist Ellen Vora that antidepressants might actually trigger panic attacks through "interdose withdrawal"—periods just before the next dose when the body craves more of the drug. As ASU's Randy Nesse told him, Paxil in particular was known for "more side effects and was harder to get off than other agents." Having taken his dose in the evenings, Gutman wondered if he had been suffering withdrawal during his morning broadcasts, exacerbating his tendency toward panic. Despite his growing skepticism about conventional pharmacology, Gutman recognized that medications help many people manage their conditions. His own journey, however, led him to seek something more comprehensive—treatments that might address not just the symptoms but the underlying causes of his panic. This quest would eventually lead him beyond pills and into territory far more experimental and, for him, ultimately more transformative.

Chapter 6: Sacred Journeys: Exploring Alternative Healing Paths

Dissatisfied with conventional treatments, Gutman ventured into alternative approaches that promised deeper transformation. His first step came through breathwork sessions with an old high school acquaintance now teaching in Los Angeles. The technique—essentially controlled hyperventilation—triggered physical sensations similar to panic attacks, but in a controlled environment. During his first session, Gutman experienced tingling extremities, then emotional release in the form of unstoppable tears. This catharsis offered temporary relief, suggesting his panic might be connected to unprocessed grief. Inspired by his wife's positive experience with psilocybin mushrooms, Gutman sought out a guided psychedelic session in the San Francisco Bay Area. Under the supervision of a guide named Farah, he took 3.5 grams of psilocybin mushrooms—considered a "heroic dose" capable of producing profound psychological insights. Though his experience was milder than expected, requiring additional doses, he eventually found himself "inside the belly of a mountain of solid granite," feeling "immovable and impenetrable." Rather than the pain he'd anticipated uncovering, the medicine sent messages of strength and permanence. Gutman's psychedelic exploration intensified with a week-long ayahuasca retreat in Peru's Sacred Valley. After rigorous preparation—fasting, dietary restrictions, and ceremonial purging—he participated in three ayahuasca ceremonies led by indigenous shamans. Despite consuming far larger doses than other participants, Gutman experienced only mild psychedelic effects, leading the shamans to suggest he might be "blocking the medicine." The retreat wasn't without impact, however. During a ceremony with 5-MeO-DMT (the "God molecule" derived from Sonoran desert toad venom), Gutman experienced complete ego dissolution followed by cathartic emotional release—hours of sobbing that accessed grief he'd long avoided. His final alternative approach was ketamine therapy at a luxury retreat in Ojai, California. Under the guidance of psychologist Dan Gil and psychiatrist Mark Braunstein, Gutman received three intense ketamine injections over a weekend. The experience was profound: during one session, his sense of self completely vanished, leaving him in a void of "no time, no space, no history, no self." In another, he visualized himself soaring over an Amazonian jungle before swan-diving from a cliff—only to have the earth rise up to catch him, offering a powerful metaphor for trust and surrender. These experiences, while sometimes harrowing, gave Gutman something conventional treatments had not: access to the emotions underlying his panic. He began to see his panic attacks not as the illness itself but as symptoms of deeper wounds demanding attention. The psychedelics offered temporary respite from his "default mode network"—the brain's pattern-maintaining system—allowing new neural connections and perspectives to emerge. Though each experience differed in intensity and insight, together they formed a progression of self-discovery. Gutman found value not in escape from reality but in confronting aspects of himself he'd long avoided. Rather than eliminating panic, these journeys helped him contextualize it within a broader emotional landscape, ultimately leading toward greater self-acceptance and resilience.

Chapter 7: Acceptance and Integration: Finding Peace with Imperfection

After exploring pharmacology, psychotherapy, and psychedelics, Gutman reached a crucial realization: there is no single "cure" for panic. His journey toward healing ultimately became one of integration rather than elimination—learning to accommodate panic rather than endlessly fighting against it. This shift in perspective began with the evolutionary understanding that panic is not a malfunction but an overzealous expression of the body's survival mechanisms, a concept that psychiatrist Randy Nesse summarized with four transformative words: "This is perfectly normal." A significant breakthrough came through disclosure. After decades of secrecy, Gutman began speaking openly about his panic attacks—first to a stranger on an airplane, then to colleagues, and eventually in support groups. Each time he shared his experience, the weight of shame lightened. He discovered he wasn't alone; many successful people in various fields secretly battled similar demons. This community of fellow sufferers provided both validation and practical strategies for managing panic. Professional help continued to play a role in Gutman's recovery. Cognitive behavioral therapy (CBT), which psychologist Michael Telch described as a "sledgehammer treatment" against panic, offered valuable insights about eliminating "safety behaviors"—the rituals and superstitions Gutman had long relied on. While full CBT treatment wasn't practical for his specific situation, its principles helped him recognize how his coping mechanisms often exacerbated rather than alleviated his panic. Perhaps most importantly, Gutman learned to access and express the emotions he'd long suppressed. Through breathwork, psychedelics, and simple permission to feel, he experienced what psychiatrist Ellen Vora calls "free therapy"—the cathartic release of crying. Rather than apologizing for tears or trying to stifle them, Gutman began to recognize crying as the body's natural way of processing "unmetabolized grief." These emotional releases, though sometimes uncomfortable, provided relief that no medication had matched. By May 2022, Gutman had gone eighteen months without a panic attack. When one finally occurred—unexpectedly during a routine interview rather than a live broadcast—he was initially devastated. But the experience proved instructive. Even in the midst of panic, he managed to acknowledge what was happening and continue his work. The episode didn't signal failure but progress—panic no longer had the power to completely derail him. Throughout his journey, Gutman discovered that wellness isn't about achieving perpetual happiness but embracing the full spectrum of human experience. As Vora puts it, "grief is absolutely part of a balanced breakfast in this human experience." By making room for all his emotions—fear, sorrow, joy, and everything between—Gutman found not freedom from panic but something perhaps more valuable: freedom from the tyranny of perfection that had driven his panic in the first place.

Summary

Matt Gutman's two-decade battle with panic disorder illuminates a fundamental truth about the human condition: our deepest fears often reflect not weakness but the very evolutionary adaptations that enabled our survival as a species. His journey from shame and secrecy to understanding and acceptance offers a roadmap for anyone grappling with anxiety in its many forms. Though there is no universal solution for panic—no magic pill or therapeutic approach that works for everyone—there are pathways toward a more compassionate relationship with our minds and bodies. The most transformative insight from Gutman's experience may be that healing doesn't necessarily mean elimination of symptoms but integration of them into a fuller understanding of ourselves. His exploration of various treatments—from conventional medications to cutting-edge psychedelic therapies, from cognitive behavioral techniques to the simple act of crying—demonstrates the value of persistent curiosity and openness. For those struggling with panic or supporting someone who does, his story offers both practical strategies and philosophical perspective: that our fears, even when they seem to betray us, are part of what makes us human. As Gutman ultimately learned, the goal isn't to eradicate every uncomfortable emotion but to create space for the full, messy, imperfect experience of being alive.

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Matt Gutman

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