I forgot how fast the mind catches fire when you finally drop your weight onto the page. We treat the blank screen like an executioner. We stare at that blinking light and freeze, terrified we will only produce noise, garbage, useless clutter. We are scared of the waste. But that flashing cursor isn't a critic. It is a dare. A broken, limping draft is infinitely better than a clean, white void. You can sand a rough board until the grain shines like water. You cannot polish air.