Click, click, click. Up, up, up, nose to the bright blue sky. With every click, something flips beneath your ribcage. What if it doesn't catch? What if something goes wrong - there's any number of things that can go wrong on a roller coaster - and the entire train goes sliding back down those tracks? It doesn't seem possible that such a heavy contraption can continue trekking to the clouds.
There's a pause, and suddenly the breath you wanted to catch is no longer there. You're finally horizontal; the world below you is once again straight and flat. So far away, like something that doesn't even exist in real life.
The nose of the car tips downward.
You don't scream. You don't raise your hands. Anyone watching would think you were calm, cool, collected. Fine. At ease. What they don't know is that your heart skipped a beat, totally and completely forgot to pump blood through your veins for a split second. They don't know that your stomach suddenly disappeared, took advantage of gravity and sank down, down, down so fast it might as well have been lead.
They don't know that you're holding your breath.
That's what it feels like to have completed your book, your edits, your polishing, your query, your agent list, and your synopsis. That's what it feels like to be ready.