I'm getting used to what Matt Drudge calls "the Trump panic attack." Example: the Los Angeles Times's Four-Part Donald Trump Fright Show, "Our Dishonest President." A sample:

In a matter of weeks, President Trump has taken dozens of real-life steps that, if they are not reversed, will rip families apart, foul rivers and pollute the air, intensify the calamitous effects of climate change and profoundly weaken the system of American public education for all.

Eeeeek! How can we get more of that? And that was just Sunday's installment.

Here's Monday's:

"He targets the darkness, anger and insecurity that hide in each of us and harnesses them for his own purposes."

I'm hoarding my heart pills in anticipation of Parts 3 (coming tomorrow) and 4 (coming Wednesday), wherein the LAT will reveal that Trump chops up small children for his taco bowl and has imprisoned Hillary Clinton and a cask of Amontillado in the basement of the Trump Tower.

But the Melania Trump panic attack? Well, we have that too:

"I Wore Melania's Couture Dress and It Was Frightening."

That's the headline for Cintra Wilson's Roll Over Edgar Allen Poe yarn of terror for New York magazine's "fashion" issue, set six years ago when Wilson was covering the opening of a new Dior store in Manhattan for the New York Times. Here goes:

One of the young store attendants sneaked me into a special chamber to show me a remarkable piece he had been enraptured by since its arrival. Once the door was closed, he carefully unzipped a garment bag, already packed to deliver to its new owner. He unwrapped a complex tissue cocoon and carefully revealed a strapless black gown made of superb-quality lambskin. It was jaw-dropping. “I’ll let you try it on, but you have to keep it a secret: Melania Trump just bought it this morning!”…

Once alone in the room, I stripped down and stepped into Melania Trump’s new party frock — a heady, transgressive thrill in and of itself. The contours of her bustline were still pressed warmly into the lamb leather. Traces of her scent lingered on the silk lining, a naughty-innocent candy sweetness not unlike an alchemical fusion of peach-infused cognac and Mr. Bubble.

And no, it's not Cintra Wilson who's the weirdo, trying on another woman's clothing and sniffing out her scent. It's…Melania:

The attendant asked me to sashay out of the room and swirl around (this is something you do, because that is the payoff of such dresses: Seeing your humble self transformed through the power-conferring magic of luxury couture). But I couldn’t bring myself to leave the room. Although the garment’s quality and architecture demanded my respect, something about the dress gave me deep reservations. Standing in the center of hundreds of hand-pintucked lamb-petals; I felt an overpowering dread.

"Overpowering dread"? Here's why:

This dress struck me as a harrowing bellwether of a kleptocratic, oligarchic future I had hoped America had narrowly avoided under the Obama administration.

Oh. That's because the net worth of the two Obamas is only $24 million, after ten years in public life. No kleptocrats, they!

And now:

Six years later, that Dior dress is now in the White House.

Sprinking overpowering dread onto the White House lawn. I'm sure. Next car on the Trump fright train: "Why Ivanka Gives Me the Willies."