About once or seven times a day, I think I've lost my _________ (phone, wallet, keys) and then begin to panic. And then all the ransacking. That's pretty much my mode right now concerning poems, too. Doubt, terror, ransack, repeat.
I wonder if this is a third book thing. I wrote an entire third manuscript, but now I want to just keep running with my current project and not return to issues in the previous.
This weekend I am going to let about 50 poems hang out together on my living room floor (cats permitting) to see if there are some connections I haven't considered previously.
So that's where I am right now. Making messes, many of them imaginary. There should be a literary term for that.