It snuck in like a thief in the night — a quiet, insidious intruder disturbing the dark peace… slinking about picking at the trappings of a life overflowing with contentment, money, achievement and energy.

“Success panic” passed through the threshold of my door when I was 44. It hit me with a blunt object — my slavish devotion to the art of the deal and the thrill of the kill. It came bearing a powerful question I had to find the answer to: How much was enough?

By this time, my television business had grown beyond our most optimistic projections. As a result, I had long since arrived at — and, in fact, surpassed — the goals I had established for accumulation of wealth. I had the big house. I had the Jaguar. I could, and did, travel to any place on earth I wished. I had either reached or was ahead of the plan to meet most of the rest of my goals as well.

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