Space. Space helps. Gives it a minute to reorient itself, focus on where it is, dig fingers carefully into the carpet and get its breathing back under control.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. I've had worse memory malfunctions." The first dream with the stomach thing was worse, in the "more horrific" sense of being able to see its own organs. Aziraphale has apparently won enough sense of safety, when compared to actual technicians, that it shares: "They were doing surgery. On my fucking brain." It brings the flesh hand up to rub at the points of pain, still aching with the echo of it, but everything's whole.

And realized with a pang of actual, audible offense: "They shaved off all my hair." It may not be quite the vain thing that the Sergeant is, but the Soldier does take care of its hair. It's nice hair.