There’s nothing like a predicted snowstorm to make the Marylander in me act like I’m trapped on the plains writing the folks back East — “Dearest Mother: Pray give me news of civilization, as I have been waylaid in this Safeway line for lo these many minutes. The shelves are barren, morale is low by the Utz display and I believe I saw a tumbleweed rolling past the freezers where the Toaster Strudel should be. Please send provisions. Specifically Toaster Strudel.”

This sounds like an exaggeration until you actually talk to your friends and neighbors about the wall of white stuff scheduled to wallop us sometime between Saturday night and Monday. In this state, we’re used to weird weather, so we’re torn between being skeptical about alleged blizzards that turn out to be flurries, and converging en masse on the nearest grocery store to buy up all the bread, milk and snacks just in case.

I come by this concern honestly. I was raised here and spent my early adulthood in York, Pennsylvania, where I got stuck reporting on the Blizzard of ‘96 and didn’t make it home for two days. Then I moved to South Florida for two decades, where my neighbors and I gritted our teeth through hurricane season. There was always a run on paper products and canned goods in case we lost power, which was a common occurrence. The lights went out once, post-storm, during my kid’s birthday party, and everyone stayed, because they didn’t have power either. But at least we had pizza and beer at our house.

On the surface, preparedness seems like a good, practical impulse, and our local officials are already on it. It’s the panic that surrounds that preparation that can seem bonkers. To wit: I was in the newsroom writing this column, and when I got to the part about rushing to stock up, I felt the anxiety rise from my gut to my chest to the scratchy, uneasy place in my throat. And then I hurriedly packed up my stuff, grabbed my coat and rushed out to stock up.

Some of that decision was based in real need — I was out of rock salt and couldn’t find the ice scraper in my car. But the speed with which I cut out of there wasn’t about practicality, but about fear, not just my own, but that of the people around me, because we’re all freaking out. And that’s contagious.

“Yeah, it’s crazy!” said the cashier at the Canton Ace Hardware, whose door bore a sign reading “Hell yea we got salt!” I’ve never never seen that store that busy on a Saturday during gardening season, but here, on a Thursday morning at 11:47 a.m. was a line of nervous-looking citizens, presumably on their lunch breaks, struggling to hold giant bags and cumbersome shovels and scrapers.

Things were similarly nuts over at the Safeway, where the parking lot was uncharacteristically packed for midday. There was a local news crew on hand near the door, interviewing those on their snack and toilet paper pilgrimage. The shoppers tromped through the aisles silently, some intently following lists and others just shoving anything that looked delicious and comforting into their food carts.

“I wasn’t going to buy all this,” I overheard a woman tell her friend in the ice cream section. “But it’s on sale.”

I feel her — I didn’t even really need food! I was at that same Safeway Monday doing my regular grocery shopping. I could have been fine with just the hardware store stop, but my prairie brain wouldn’t ease up. What if we wound up stuck inside until Monday or Tuesday and we ran out of sparkling water or iced tea? Did I have enough cooking spray? Batteries? Gnocchi? What if there was a gnocchi emergency? That’s not likely, but I bought it anyway.

I am aware that in these instances, our stress can give way to hysteria and our needs collide with the wants that bring us comfort. This is probably scientific or something. The point is that the cookies in my cart are not necessary. But aren’t they?

I think the reason we freak out and buy all the Pringles in sight is that it’s one of the only things we can control in this situation. We don’t have any power over the storm, whether it comes and dumps three inches of snow or two feet. We’re helpless to do anything but prepare as we can and hope we make it OK.

I must acknowledge the privilege I and others enjoy to have ready transportation to do all these storm runs, to have money to pay for them, and warm, secure homes to pile it all into. Many of our neighbors do not, and probably wish they had the ability to whinge about whether our Diet Coke stash will survive until we can go buy some more.

The thing that calms me is that even if we’re snowed in, it’s probably just for a few days. If I run out of the emotionally satisfying snacks I bought, we have the basics like frozen vegetables and spaghetti we can eat if the power doesn’t go out, and fruit and canned goods we can have if it does.

We are safe. We are warm. We will likely be OK. I did what I could, and now there’s nothing to do but hunker down and be happy I have somewhere to be.

But if the power does go out, I better finish this vegan Ben & Jerry’s now.