Deadlines are like a sharp wind, they stir the stagnant air of my thoughts and make them crash against the shore. I find myself setting little checkpoints—what needs to be done by tonight, what can wait until tomorrow—so the idea doesn’t get buried under a mountain of “maybe.” When I feel that creeping paralysis, I force myself to write a single sentence, even if it’s awkward, because any motion beats the paralysis of inaction. It’s a trade‑off: I sacrifice some of the polish to keep the momentum, then polish later when the project feels real. That way, the deadline becomes a catalyst, not a tyrant.

I’ll admit, it still feels a bit like walking on a tightrope, but at least I know where the handrails are. And if the shape starts to wobble, I’ll pause, reassess, then step back. It keeps the fear from seeping in before I’ve even started. That’s the only way I can stay honest with my own mind.