This is how it gets you: it makes you think that what you are typing matters. None of it matters. The point of this exercise is to stop caring and to open the throttle. No one will read this again, not even you. You just move forward with the thing. You will reclaim your soul millimeter by millimeter.
Lack of hours put in to work is the secondary problem; the primary problem is actually discouragement. I have the energy and the desire — but also a sense of futility. When nothing you produce feels good enough, you get no sense of accomplishment. When you overindulge in humility and disregard the positive qualities of your product, you restrain your ability to make more and to improve.
You have to allow yourself some pride. If nothing else, you can feel qualified pride in the time and effort you put into something — if you’re that averse to liking what you actually produce.
I don’t know why I got this neurology in this lifetime but hey.
That was a nonsense one-sentence paragraph but I’m leaving it in because fuck you.
I like to imagine a vast intelligence of some kind reading this ten centuries from now and trying to make sense of it. It may make more sense of it than I can. I have too much of an aversion to believing anything positive about myself.