Faced with a blank page, utter terror comes first. The page must be filled, the word counts reached. Something, something, must be written. The cursor blinks innocently, both beckoning and taunting, a reminder of all the fine phrases and sentences -- even whole paragraphs -- of the past. Once, there were stories. Now, there is anxiety and avoidance tactics.
Then, rationalization. It's not such a big deal, right? Deadlines? Who cares! I've got plenty of time! I'll work on it tomorrow. The ideas are there, which is important. Without ideas, there is no story, so half the battle is already won. The words can wait; the page can stay blank for another day, week, or month. There is no cause for concern.
Self-loathing. I HAVE NO TALENT WHY DO I BOTHER NOBODY CARES MOM'S RIGHT I SHOULD BE AN ACCOUNTANT SCREW YOU LIBERAL ARTS WHYYYY
Avoidance (and delusion). The past is past. Forget the old project. The old project isn't worth the computer document it's typed on. This idea, this new idea, is the idea. Shiny and new, full of promise, this is the story I was born to write! That other one is a path trodden by too many writers before me; why should I trample the same ground when I could forge my own trail...to glory.
A false sense of security. It's going so well! I'll be finished by the time the snow melts!
A blank page and utter terror. CURSE THIS NEVER-ENDING CYCLE.