2:53 p.m.: An AP news alert: “A plane crash has been reported on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.” I freeze. And probably along with most of New York, the country, and perhaps the world, I feel my heart skipped a beat. I then do a double take, learning in the process that that hackneyed phrase actually does describe a cognitive event. Our office is on Chambers Street, a few blocks uptown from Ground Zero. Several of us look south out the window.

2:59 p.m.: Another wire report: “No immediate word on any deaths or injuries.” Some relief. I tell a colleague — unclear whether to reassure myself or her (probably both) — that it probably wasn’t a terrorist attack. Right? People pick up the phone. I dial a friend but only get voicemail.

An editor calls me — distance in his voice — checking I’d seen the news. People have that slow-motion blank stare on their faces. That look that silently seeks comfort in the faces of others.

I’m from London. Brits have, in general, a more stoic response. London had so many years of IRA terrorism. There’s just a quiet resolve. When something bad happens, Londoners pretend they are reliving the Blitz.

Americans take events more personally. Maybe there’s been another attack on our city, we are all thinking.

3:02 p.m.: Details start coming: “Witnesses said the crash caused a loud noise, and burning and falling debris was seen. Flames were seen shooting out of the windows.” The report continues: “It was not immediately known if it was terrorism.” My friend calls me back. He was two blocks away, at 70th Street.

We gather around the television screen at the center of the newsroom. For once, computers and the internet are not as compelling as the TV news. There’s something vaguely sixties-ish about the feel of all of us staring up at that angle. We keep watching that image — the one that we immediately know will be plastered on the front page of newspapers in the morning — of flames and smoke. I tell myself it doesn’t look as bad as first feared.

3:27 p.m.: Wire report says the FBI says there is no indication of terror. But does that make sense? Who would fly a plane or a helicopter into a building? This is Manhattan. People aren’t convinced. We imagine Al Qaeda operatives in helicopter school. If this isn’t a terrorist attack, the terrorists are laughing.

Almost every news report – on the Internet, on the television, and on the radio – mentions September 11. “Exactly one month and five years later,” one television announcer reminds us.

3:49 p.m.: “Police have confirmed two deaths at the Upper East Side plane crash.” Eleven minutes later, fighter jets move over American cities. A precaution, the Pentagon says.

4:48 p.m.: And now, a change in the story. “A law enforcement official has told The Associated Press that a member of the New York Yankees organization was aboard the plane that crashed into a New York City high-rise. And FAA records show the plane was registered to pitcher Cory Lidle.”

An accident doesn’t feel as bad as a terrorist attack, even when it produces the same death toll. When the concept of “accident” flashes in New Yorkers’ brains, they begin to feel that they may not be back where they were in 2001, after all. For a while this afternoon felt like that morning. Now suddenly, it no longer does. I stand up, walk from my desk to get some Advil. On the way, I see a copy of John Ashcroft’s book “Never Again,” lying, among the other policy tomes on a table. Does the book look different now than it did an hour ago? Different than it did yesterday?

Relief is a hard feeling to describe. But for a brief period, from, say, 4:45 p.m. to 6:00 p.m. on this weird day, many New Yorkers come closer to experiencing pure relief than they ever have in their lifetimes. Now people are dialing again, calling their relatives to talk about where they were. They chatter, spewing anecdotes, bad puns, and literary references. Now I have one: History repeats itself, first as tragedy, then as baseball.

Mr. Freedman is editor of the online edition of The New York Sun and blogs at www.itshinesforall.com.