Buried alive

I'm going through one of my semi-regular phases right now: My house scares me.
Not the studs, wires or concrete. It's taken five years, but Supportive Partner Man (wielder of many tools!) - with the occasional able assistance of our versatile local handyman, Rob - has gotten a decent handle on the physical plant of Chez T, which was in wide disrepair the day we moved in.
No, it's the stuff in my house that has me shaking in my slippers.
A former coworker of mine always says, "You can never have too much stuff." I beg to differ. I like my stuff, but there is way too much of it.
I always start with the best of intentions, aiming to keep things tidy, but there's a good reason SPM's mother describes me to her friends as "housekeeping challenged." Right now, I am bogged down with multiple issues. Work, extracurricular activities, family. All take their toll, time-wise. (As an aside, I'm proud to say that I'm multitasking as I type this - I'm pulling in CDs to make a playlist for The Old Man and Saint Joan's class reunion picnic on Saturday.)
Now I have another deadline looming, though, and it's kicked my yearning for a Dumpster and a blowtorch into high gear.
The Dreaded Yard Sale is nigh.
On June 9, our development is staging its annual fevered festival of garage-based commerce. We'll get lots of Amish and Mennonite customers mixed in with the "English." Traffic will be nuts. Hopefully we'll be able to pare down our stuff. First, though, I need to force myself into going through the closets and bookshelves and cabinets. And that is a scary, scary thought.
Take the clothes closet in the master bedroom. (No, seriously, take it. Please.) To say it looks as though a bomb went off in there is too simple.
The carnage is devastating.
I've got T-shirts melting into each other and bubbling, dripping off their shelves. I've got a ravening horde of dress pants from three sizes and two decades ago whimpering to be unstuffed from their dusty hangers and set free to someone who might love them. Sweaters are threatening to break out of their overstuffed cubbyhole. Shoes on the side rack are choking to death on the killer dust bunnies, and holding SPM's ties hostage in the corner.
There are ball caps and afghans and sheets and a sleeping bag all clamoring for attention.
The din is overwhelming, and I'm wishing that the "organization" code in my family DNA hadn't skipped me.
I go through this every year. I'll pull together several items, sell a bunch, donate what's left to Goodwill or some other charity. And then, the next year, there's more. The stuff ... leave it alone in the dark and it multiplies.
At least the June 9 sale isn't the only crack I'll have at getting it right this year. We also have an annual gathering at my cousin's Route 222-adjacent abode the Saturday after the Fourth of July, at which several branches of the family convene to hang out for a day and sell, sell, sell.
In the meantime, though, I must make myself clean and organize. I have a week. I can do this, can't I?
You're laughing at me, aren't you?