When meatballs attack

Brownie makes the bestest meatballs ever. Seriously. Like, I'd have considered marrying for meatball access if I wasn't already married to him.

So when we got out to visit my parents, we made a fuckload of meatballs. Half went into the freezer. The other half has been sitting in the fridge since last Saturday. Brownie was swearing up and down that they're completely fine STILL.

Really, though? 9 days for meat?

So I decided they're probably not fine even though they smell/taste fine, and am going to toss them. But the thing is that I DID taste a bit of one. And it does taste fine.

Two things are now going on in my head:
1) I'm planning on throwing out perfectly good food based on the fact that it "should" in my mind be bad already. (aka "food guilt from my grandmother (Mom's Mom) yelling at us when we were kids and didn't want leftovers")(also aka "why can't bad food just start spewing green fumes like it does in the Sims??")
2) I'm simultaneously convinced that the meatballs can't be good any longer just because seriously, nine days, and that because I tried one I'm going to go into some sort of paralytic shock here in the next ten minutes, a feeling which has tripped a mild panic attack (which I'm currently trying to quell via breathing carefully and talking myself down by posting this) which itself isn't being helped beause it's almost 2 and I've thus far only had coffee today, so I'm getting shaky and headachy, which I rationally know is due to lack of food but which panicky brain is attributing to "ZOMG MEATBALL WILL KILL ME."

Fortunately, I'm at least recognizing that I've thrown myself into anxiety over pretty much nothing, so I should hopefully feel better after I've finally eaten the frozen pizza that is currently unfreezing in the oven.