I am so tired I want to cry.

I feel suffocated. Cornered. Like I’m underwater. I have a thousand and one items on my to-do list—some take thirty seconds, some take two hours—but the mental space they occupy is enormous.

I have zero lines written to show for it, and at some point I start doubting my ability to write this mf book. I hate doubting my ability. But I have no energy. None. Zero.

I knew January and February would be bad, but they are severely exceeding expectations.

Tomorrow will be better.