The thing with anxiety is, no matter what you write, or how much, it’s never quite right.
I worry about whether it’s crap. I worry that I’m writing the wrong story. I see phenomenal wordcounts (there are bastards who write 100,000 words in a month!!!) and worry I’m not measuring up.
It’s like a song in my head, always droning on. Shutting off the sound of it is tricky.
I tell myself it’s just a hobby. That it’s a soothing routine, a strange form of meditation. That all that keyboard clicking is good exercise for my fingers. I remind myself that it’s all just for me, a gift to myself. And all of these things are true, which helps a lot.
And then I turn up some music (headphones are preferable), and I do it. So long as I can fool the anxiety, I can write.
And sometimes, I go play bejewelled instead.