I am a mess.

How do I know this? Exhibit one: around midnight last night, I burst out of my front door in search of the source of the music rattling my windows—and my precariously upheld sense of calm.

I’m in Mickey Mouse pajama bottoms and a thin, sagging t-shirt shouting, “What the Fu**?” And there’s my new neighbor, sitting on his front step smoking a cigarette. “Have I been rockin’ too loud?” he asks, coming over.

I take a breath, put on a smile, try to act like I wasn’t just about to have a...