You’re in your shed and the gnarly piece of wood you discovered, and planned to shape into something wondrous, suddenly appears pointless. Your one-third-completed patchwork quilt on your lap, at last with time to make progress, your first and seemingly final thought is, “what drivel shit.” At your beachside resort, day one on your novel, all you can do is tweet and scoff chocolate, a void inside your chest. For anyone making, learning or striving, these moments of terror cannot be shared. They’re yours, yours alone.
One step into work, the actual doing, and the terror vanishes, not even a memory. Otherwise . . .