John Jannuzzi is fairly new to the world of freelance writing - he was laid off from GQ at the beginning of November. He knows it's gonna be okay.

By John Jannuzzi

It was just over a week ago that I was summoned to a small conference room to meet with Human Resources. The assistant who grabbed me knew what was afoot, but I, perhaps with some kind of dysphoric naiveté, couldn't come to the obvious conclusion that I was getting laid off.

It's a curious thing that is not fun, not pleasant, and certainly not easy. Lay offs are the most unfortunate result of budget cuts — the scourge of the publishing world since 2009, at least. As I write this, Details has closed for good. Lay Offs are a terrible business, and nobody, including those responsible for making these decisions, welcomes them. Their effects linger like a fog on a team's morale.

I barely processed the details of that meeting. My focus was set on the blunt fact that my life was now clocked by an hourglass, the sand of which was my severance package, how long I could pay rent, how far could I stretch my single credit card and how much freelance I could bank off of using my network. All of this exacerbated by the typically slow-to-hire holidays. The more I thought about the circumstances, the deeper the pit in my stomach went.

Earnest and welcome votes of confidence from my colleagues and friends eased some pain: "You're going to find something soon," "Anybody would be lucky to have you," "Travel!" Still, I couldn't get rid of The Feeling. It wasn't bad, but it certainly wasn't good. In some ways, it felt like my birthday. Endless messages about how great I am were heartening. My parents repeated, "You'll be fine!" People kept buying me drinks. My ego skyrocketed — I felt temporarily great, invincible and optimistic. It was magic, almost. "Onward and upward!" said approximately three thousand text messages.

I left the city for a weekend to take comfort in my mother's food, my dogs, and sleep. Lots of sleep. And then, after a lethargic and gluttonous weekend spent filling myself with three quarters of a Magnolia layer cake and plenty of Netflix, I returned to the city. To Monday.

That first morning brought the siren's song of even more binge watching, track pants and Seamless Web — a tune nearly impossible to resist. But, with my Odysseus-like strength conjured by fear of sloth, I denied the doom they would bring. You see, that hourglass is everywhere I look now, a constant warning that I must find a way to keep the life I worked so hard to get.

I found in those first days that keeping to my schedule helped. I'd still wake up in the crazy-early morning, and I'd still go to the gym, and I'd still make my breakfast, but then I'd have to find something to do.

The first days of unemployment were eaten by feverishly e-mailing every person I know and resurrecting my LinkedIn account to find anything that would give me more sand in that hourglass. My mind wracked itself trying to unearth whatever ideas and contacts it could. This is how I kept myself out of doldrum's way — resigning to a slightly stressful existence.

That stress and the uncertainty is somewhat torturous. But at the same time, there's an odd pleasantness that comes with it — one I'm hesitant to acknowledge because admitting that not working, even at a job you enjoy, seems wrong. But getting paid (via severance) while enjoying quiet mornings is hard not to love. Casual lunches with my friends who have cracked the freelance code are long and lazy and relaxing. And of course, the thrill of the hunt and the elusive promise of something new around the corner is exciting. Because of these small pleasures, my mind constantly tricks itself into being a euphoric pseudo-bohemian with an Instagram account before devolving into a fraught, frightened and rent-poor psychopath. A dichotomy only to be solved by action, and to act as if that hourglass is already empty.

As I write this, I see a shearling jacket on my coat stand. I bought it with a large chunk of my savings some weeks ago. I don't regret it, but now that my life is measured in parcels of rent money, I must reconsider it and any future expenses. More layoffs will come, and more still after that. There's a very real awareness in the publishing industry that no matter how many page views or Twitter followers you have, how many likes you can drum up on Instagram, you never know if you'll be next.

And if you are, you'll be presented with two options. The first: submit to severance, to let yourself devolve into a puddle of Netflix goo. But likeInception, if you spend too long there, you'll forget your reality and eventually be stuck three layers deep playing with a dreidel.

The second: embrace the suck. You're out of a job, which sucks, but take it graciously. Take the call to spring to action, to reevaluate how happy you may have been and how happy you can. Also, remember, it's only temporary.

Follow John on Twitter and Instagram; collage by Krista Anna Lewis.