— always remember to turn off your microphone upon heading to the dressing room for a costume change, lest everyone in the theater hear you curse your co-star for messing up the last scene;

— never do anything to upset the spotlight operators, lest you perform your big scene in complete darkness; and most important,

— be sure to remember that panic is your friend.

As I write this masterpiece, I am a week away from taking the stage as professor Harold Hill in the local community theater troupe’s production of "The Music Man." As anyone who has ever appeared in an amateur production can attest, a week from opening night is about the time you start thinking only divine intervention can salvage the show. So at this moment, I am inclined to panic.

But having appeared in my share of community plays, I know everything is proceeding right on schedule. As I sit at my keyboard, I’m as freaked out as a girls slumber party watching "Halloween." But by the time today’s edition hits your breakfast table, the production will have jelled, and I’ll feel confident the show will go on.

Such is the power of panic.

Without deadline panic, nothing would get done on time. Actors wouldn’t feel compelled to finally take their scripts home and memorize their lines. Stage managers wouldn’t bother to line up the props needed to prevent the actors from looking like mimes. Spotlight operators wouldn’t stop nipping from their flasks long enough to learn their cues. Whoops! Looks like I’ll be singing "Seventy Six Trombones" in the dark.

Performers are artistic people who aren’t motivated to finish anything at any particular time, other than getting their hands on a mocha latte first thing in the morning. They need deadlines to get things accomplished. They need the fear of God — or at least the fear of looking moronic in front of hundreds of people they know — to help them focus.

As of this writing, there are signs of trouble in River City. Some scenes are still being put together, and we have yet to run even one act from start to finish. We’re still forgetting lines, and our dance numbers are only slightly less chaotic than a Halloween night riot on State Street. It’s enough to scare the "Shipoopi" out of you.

But experience tells me this Wells Fargo wagon won’t crash. Every production takes a quantum leap sometime during the final week of rehearsals and somehow, against all odds, everything comes together. And it’s all thanks to panic.

Sure, there will be glitches. Actors will forget lines and the orchestra will hit wrong notes. The crew will drop a kitchen table backstage, sending an entire dinner setting clattering to the floor. A leading lady might even drop her microphone in the toilet. But for the most part, things will go as planned. And the mishaps only add to the theater group’s lore, shared over drinks and laughs at cast parties for years to come. If there’s anything amateur actors do better than mess up, it’s laugh and drink.

So what the heck, you’re welcome: You really ought to give Iowa a try. Not because our musical will be a train wreck from the moment the salesmen take the car from Rock Island to River City, but because we will be ready to present our take on a fun, heartwarming American classic. The director can only hope some way, somehow, the charming cad she cast as Harold Hill will be believable as a charming cad.

There are obstacles to overcome. But a lot of talented people have been assembled in the cast and crew, and they will succeed once panic works its magic.

A less-experienced actor might think this show is headed for trouble with a capital "T." But only if he doesn’t know the territory.