Finally, you manage to write something. You know it's not Chekhov (yet) but you did it! You sat down and wrote a lot of words and they sort of work and you feel really good about yourself. Perhaps you are a writer, after all, you think ... until the next morning, when you reread what you wrote, and realise it's utter drivel. What on earth were you thinking of? It's no good. You're no good. You should have become a plumber. At least they get paid for what they do. Look at all the real writers out there already. Bookshop shelves groan under the weight of their collective genius. How can your pathetic contribution add anything to what's been said already? Why even try? Stick it in a drawer and forget it ...
Familiar?