I actually wrote a scene this weekend! Yaay! I don't know if it's any good, but at least it's on paper. Putting words on paper these days is a laborious, slogging process, each letter typed is a footstep in a bog of self-doubting heartsickness. Ugh, ugh, ugh! This is the time of the process which is the worst of the worst. I remember going through this with my first novel too. That sense of despair that I've built a house of cards and one more element will bring the whole structure crashing down into chaotic fragments.
Of course that's not true. I wish I could turn on the words like I turn on the faucet. But I have internal barriers to that. Perfectionism, self doubt, laziness, procrastination; a kind of psychic state which keeps me in the illusion that solitude and repose will make me feel whole, and feeling whole is a prerequisite for creative labor.
I'm sort of lazy. One part of my mind tells another part that if I just worry about it, then I'm really doing what needs to be done to get it accomplished. It's a delusion, self-limiting and grafted to my creative system as surely as Doc Ock's mechanical arms were grafted to his spine.