As I write on, whether the stimulus is an outer force--from overdoses of caffeine, or innerly original--from fast-speed processing threads of arguments in my head, I cannot tell any more. But I know it feels great putting words together as if I were knitting a special scarf of thoughts, or squatting down on an open space, patches of patterns being connected into a complete little quilt of meanings.
Constant fear exists, though; I am honestly worried that the fact that 'I'm not well read' and 'I did not try all I could' will be uncovered through the writing I am working so hard on. I see that clearly (so very sickening clearly) as I write, write, write on. Suppose they do not need to be mentioned? Time's up, no chance to mend what's done, and what's done cannot be undone, says Macbeth.
No point thinking my head off on this, you will say.