This isn't an accurate picture of Florence at all. Instead try to imagine instead 10,000 people in a medieval city, all jostling against you, all admiring plaster busts of David, all eating ice cream cones.
Read something set in a world where winter lasts one hundred years. Certain characters will remind you darkly that winter is coming and you can think, "Well, for me that's merely true in a seasonal sense, whereas in your case it's a metaphor for being caught in the middle of an intractable political conflict and assassinated or possibly being eaten alive by wolves."
Accept that your herb garden is dead. Plant paperwhites on the windowsill.
Make too much oatmeal for breakfast and then watch in amazement as the cat casually sticks her head in the bowl to eat the leftovers.