Panic

I can't think of anything to say to you.  The trouble is that every idea I have and every sentence I write, however banal, becomes indelible as soon as I press the 'Publish Post' button on my screen. My decision to add something almost daily means there's not much time to edit what I write: if I'm assembling a poem it takes months, even years to reach a point where I'd want the world to see it, but here I have to make sure that what I've written is vaguely presentable, then it's out.  I'm no journalist, that much is certain.  As soon as I've posted a piece I want to add a note saying, 'I'm sorry.  I'll try harder tomorrow.'  What's more I can't work on a post for more than two days before I chicken out of posting it.  I wrote a draft piece on Friday, continued it on Saturday and by Sunday I'd decided it was so self-indulgent that I would bring shame upon my house, my family and my ancestors by publishing the thing. 

Here's today's piffle.  You should leave while there's still time.  Forget what I said last week about feeling fabulous and full of creative zeal.  It's horrible.