It's days like these when I understand why writers start drinking. I'm not even being sarcastic--a little vodka in the morning orange juice, that might take the edge off, right? Get just toasted enough to not feel anxious anymore? Yeah. I'm staging a pre-emptive self-intervention now. No Woodchuck until after I finish. And basically at this point I'm just gonna sit here and take my time, as much time as it takes, just try to stay loose with it, and turn off all the "WHY DIDN'T YOU INCLUDE MY FAVORITE PART??" voices in my head.
The other thing I usually do is--well, you can tell how anxious I am by the relative silliness of the music I'm playing. I think it's time to bring out the big guns again:
It was either this or Rick-rolling myself. Don't think I won't do it, either.
ETA: Okay, it's going pretty well. I'm kind of at that point where I have more scenes written than I have unwritten, and I'm trying to go a little more Van Helsing with it (that is, not putting in every tiny detail) and it seems to be working out okay. I hate it, but I'm having to leave out most of Charlie and the kids because they were intentionally funny, and you know how little you can do with that.