It was good to see all these readings. Dickinson's poetry is nothing if not ambiguous, so it can't be right to deny the presence of a reading that can be seen to work. On the other hand we all have our preferences, and I am with Sumaya in enjoying this stanza as breathlessly representative of being overwhelmed by uncontrollable physical love. But chacun a son gout.
I know it quite well because it attracted my attention when I first read it. It reminds me of Christina Rossetti's 'Goblin Market', another poem about a similar loss of control over the physical (possibly).