Writing Anxiety

How creation can become both salvation and torment.

I’ve finished all the chapters of my book. Now I’m in the stage of editing, and I don’t know what to do next. I can’t even come up with a name for it. I stopped writing for a while because I had no energy left. The book has consumed my mind completely. Sometimes I feel dizzy and sick when I try to type.

I feel horrible. uilty for not writing, but doing everything to avoid it. For three years, writing was how I coped with myself. It’s been a long fight without an end. One day I’m full of light; the next I fall into depression. I thought that finishing the draft would make everything easier. But even my favorite chapters are difficult to edit. I read them, expand them, cut them, and sometimes I hate what I’m doing, because the result never feels right.

On some mornings, I can barely get out of bed. I force myself to open my laptop, to read, to type. But I think I already hate my book.

The hardest part is that I have no one to talk to. No one who truly understands this kind of struggle. I long for writer friends, someone who knows this pain, this obsession. My thoughts spiral, making a mess in my head, creating chaos instead of clarity. I can’t find inner harmony; I can’t beat the anxiety.

I feel constant restlessness, as if I’ve forgotten how to relax. I drink more than I should, just to quiet my mind for a few hours, but the next day brings only guilt, and new doubts about myself and my writing. I’m tired all the time. I wish I could rest from myself, but that’s impossible.

Sometimes I think about death and realize that the only reason I want to live is to write, to express everything I still carry inside. And yet, if it’s so important to me, why is it so hard to do?

This journey feels endless. Excitement and fear twist together until I can’t tell them apart. I thought I’d feel happy when I finished, but instead I’m facing a new, insurmountable peak. I rewrite, edit, and rewrite again, trying to fix every gap, every broken thread. It feels endless. It makes me wonder if I have any talent at all or any right to write.

I wanted to make my book better. But lately, it feels like I’m only destroying myself.

Anyway, I know I have to write. Without it, my life has no sense. Only writing gives me serenity, tranquility, and equanimity, the quietness I always long for.