A brief trip to Hong Kong to visit a dear friend seemed like a good idea at the time. Two weeks later, when my head began to throb, I thought I must be suffering from that common millennial affliction of caffeine withdrawal.

But after three days of paracetamol and plenty of coffee, the pain ramped up to an unbearable level. I presented at St Vincent’s Hospital emergency department in Sydney at 8am last Sunday, convinced I had a brain tumour on the precipice of exploding.

Please calm down, urges Tom Hywood, who is recovering from coronavirus.

I underwent brain scans, blood tests and a precautionary nose swab. About 12 hours later, I was told by a friendly doctor – covered from head to toe in an armour of protective clothing – that I had coronavirus. Frankly, the diagnosis was a relief from the alternative.

By this point, my symptoms had subsided. While I’m very aware COVID-19 can be lethal for the elderly and anyone with a compromised immune system or respiratory difficulties, the experience of a young, relatively fit patient seems out of proportion to the panic and fear I’ve encountered since my diagnosis.