Multiple Choice Madness

The cats are playing rodeo and hide-and-seek in the two empty boxes in the living room. All the other boxes are full, getting ready to go to New York to be my adorable child's beautiful apartment furnishings. The pressure and pain in my chest isn't cardiac, so it's either the RSD moving to my chest muscles, costochondritis, or just old-fashioned anxiety. The long-term disability insurance is delayed on medical review after I submitted two pounds of medical records, the on-call job I was counting on dried up abruptly in June and has been asking me for this piece of paperwork and that continuously since then, but not offering any work or paying for my time to answer all their questions, and the only interview I have been able to get in town was for a job I was wildly unqualified for and would pay about half what I used to make; no callback after a cordial and chatty hour and ten minutes out of my life.
I have a job interview six hours away tomorrow and it's sketchy. I have, honestly, no idea how I would physically manage a move if I got the damn thing. The only reason I'm going is that it's in the field I'm trying to break into and if I could manage it, even for a year or so, I could leverage it into a much better job. That's predicating, of course, that my upcoming crazed cross-country Penske racing team adventure is survivable. Oh, I didn't mention that I was loading my muscle spasms and my child's migraines into a moving van, hitching her Volkswagen to the rear of it, and driving it through the Appalachians to the other side of the country, with no one lined up to help us put the stuff in the third-floor unairconditioned apartment at the end of the trip? It's incidental that neither of us has ever driven a trailer in reverse, of course, and she has never driven a truck.
Thinking it over, it's quite possible that the nerve damage is not restricted to my limbs and trunk but has quite possibly extended above my neck.