I was lying in bed the other night, doing the thing I do best when I should be sleeping: catastrophizing. Actually, I was getting a lecture from my inner critic. She’s tall, blonde, and attractive in that way that automatically qualifies someone to be a meteorologist on a morning show. She taps long, fake, blingy nails on a phone better than mine, guzzles Red Bull, calls kale smoothies “meals,” and has never had a thought she didn’t share. She wears jeans bedazzled with judgments too cruel to make it into a burn book, and the back pockets are stuffed with internalized misogyny. Worst of all, she can initiate a Zoom…