Joy . . . or, not

Cooked seven personal pizzas.  The last one, which came out of the oven just past 9:00, was mine. The last bite of the first half was in my mouth when my stomach started flip-flopping and I began sweating. I can't remember the last time I spat out food.  I want to go to bed, but dare not lay down until my stomach has a chance to work on its contents.