I was freaking.

Let me be clearer, because freelancers are always freaking—about juggling our deadlines, making our deadlines, getting paid after our deadlines, sometimes a sheer lack of deadlines. This was different. I was wide-eyed at 7 a.m., even though I don't even own an alarm clock. I couldn't get the unpaid bills out of my head. The assignments I had were enough to keep me busy—a blessing in itself. The problem was, the projects only paid about $400 a piece. My elementary mathematical skills told me I was in trouble that morning. I could not live on the few bucks I was about to make, not in New York or in any other city.

I needed a job.

Must-Be-Employed Syndrome sets in every six months. That means I've felt this way 10 times over the last five years. That means I've applied for editor jobs at CosmoGIRL!, Allure, Us Weekly, Marie Claire, and several other similar publications. That means there are at least 10 editor jobs in this city that have been offered to someone other than me. So I guess the freak out wasn't so different, not for me.

Fulltime employment sounded charming when I was suffering from the familiar freelancer woes of loneliness, indebtedness, worthlessness, and cashlessness. I missed old coworkers, who I imagined were frolicking together during and after office hours. I had loved the fun, creative bunch when I was a staff writer at Twist magazine. I had loved glamming myself up—an excuse to buy lovely, overpriced clothes—when I was an associate editor at Cosmopolitan. As an employee, I could convince myself that I was a valuable member of our society. After all, someone must have cared about me if they were willing to pay for my health insurance. I'd had an inbox and outbox—the metal kind, not the Microsoft kind—that stayed in constant movement. I'd had somewhere to be at 9:30 in the morning, and, if I didn't show, a human being would call to check on me. I always showed up; I also had an alarm clock back then.

The memories of fulltime work began to glow warmly in my mind, shedding light into my dark and downtrodden frontal lobes. By 7:30 that morning, I had logged into mediabistro.com and checked out the job listings. I instantly applied for a senior producer position at gURL.com, the equivalent of a senior editor post at a magazine. Within 24 hours, my phone rang: Someone wanted to meet me—me!—for an interview ASAP.

The next afternoon, I arrived in gURL.com's Midtown offices wearing a professional outfit. I was tag-teamed by two interviewers, one from human resources and the other from the editorial department. The interview was slightly less painful than a blind date. I had a hard time convincing these corporate women that I had web expertise. (Rightly so; all I'd done was produce my own website.) But I knew teen writing and editing. In a surprise move, the editorial director took me to meet the website staff. The office is funky! I thought, my armpits responding excitedly. I could be so happy here! I told myself as I stared at the 10-foot gURL banner on the conference room wall. She wouldn't take me to meet these people if I weren't a serious candidate, right? I eked out hellos to the young, professional women with lovely overpriced clothes. Next, my interviewer handed me an edit test—due in three days—and told me she'd make a decision within a week.

The edit test was not only easy, it was fun. It took eight hours to complete, but I didn't mind. I turned it in 24 hours after I'd received it. I needed the job as much as I needed water, I believed. Of course, I'd believed the very same thing 10 times in the past. Then I sat by the phone, frantic and nervous. My boyfriend asked me if I'd miss going to dance class four times a week. "Of course," I said, ignoring him. "We can't go on vacation for two weeks in July either," he said, my enthusiasm for gURL only slightly deterred. I was dreaming of the fat, regular paycheck.

The phone didn't ring that week. When I applied for the positions at all of the other magazines, it hadn't rung either. One week turned into two. Two weeks turned into a month. The slight hope that something magical would happen (maybe their first choice will move to Madagascar!) began to set in. A sickness also made itself at home in my intestines. I was, once again, being chucked by a company that didn't even bother to formally chuck me. My old boss at Cosmo used to call people she didn't hire. She had a rule: If a candidate interviewed and turned in an edit test, she deserved a prompt answer. Despite working till 10 p.m. most nights, my old boss wasn't too busy to make that quick, difficult call. She was more conscientious than most.

I had finally received rejections from Us Weekly, Allure, and Marie Claire, but only after I pestered the editors for them via email. I finally received one from gURL, too. It came in the form of a letter that I kept posted on my refrigerator. It included the words "overqualified" and "not right" in the same sentence. Someone I had never heard of or met signed it. As usual, it looked like I'd keep paying my own health insurance bills. I'd keep pitching magazines story ideas and wind up with dinky 200-word assignments. My self-esteem was taking another serious hit.

Then something happened: The phone began to ring. In the midst of a woe-is-me slump, I got an assignment from Self with a big word count. I met with a literary agent who said my next teen idea was stellar and encouraged me to finish the proposal. My self-confidence received the boost it needed—just as it had 10 times before. Luckily, the life of a freelancer includes hot streaks along with the freak-out weeks. I was going to survive self-employment. My boyfriend booked the two-week vacation.

With the most recent rejection letter in hand, I vowed never to apply for a fulltime job again. I'd move to Madagascar first. I'm obviously not ripe for regular employment. I realize that the longer I go without a staff job, the more unemployable I am. I realize that I've been competing with people who have done office time nonstop, making their resumes—not to mention editing skills—sharper than mine. The interview time, the hours on edit tests—it wasn't all lost effort. I've landed freelance jobs as a result of all that work.

Next time when Must-Be-Employed Syndrome sets in, I'll just have to go to dance class or meditate or something. That and convince myself that I'm a freelancer for one fine reason: I'm good at it. It's my job.

Kristen Kemp is a freelance writer living in New York City. You can read her other "Getting It Write" columns in the archives.