It's writing the previous sentence, deciding you need coffee, getting distracted, and never actually getting back to either the piece, or the coffee (or the third thing.)
It's being so utterly frustrated that you consider giving up this "writing thing" entirely, because who are you to want to write something good and interesting and fascinating (much less published)?
It's having an idea, but not the brainpower to explore it. It's not having an idea. It's having an idea, only to find out that someone else wrote it far better than you ever could have, and again, you consider the various options for escape.
It's spending hours dithering over what your perfect Spotify playlist to jar your brain out of its deadened mode is, and then giving up and actually doing your work.
It's having to actually work, at a job, because no one pays writers anymore, and being so scared that the "grind" is going to exhaust you forever, is going to kill your creative soul, and render you bland and imitative.
It's writing a list of one-to-two sentence complaints starting with "it" because there's something else you want to write but maybe if you can just make yourself put words onto paper and not let yourself delete anything but misspellings maybe just maybe you'll re-awaken that hibernating voice that lets you put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard and create.
