This is the thought that's currently both exciting and terrifying me:
The work you've been doing for the past few years is done. It's time to move on to something new. Wrap up the old work, tie its shoelaces, pat it on the head and send it off to go wherever it goes. You have to clear the decks before anything new has room to land.
The terrifying part, of course, being -- having faith that there will be "anything new." Not to mention, faith that the old work won't get flattened by a runaway school bus the minute it turns the corner and I can't keep an eye on it anymore.
Sometimes it's easier to start things than to finish them, eh?
The Muse (if she exists) whispers seductively. She taps her foot impatiently. She shakes her shaggy head and says, Look, if I've told you once I've told you a hundred times. She turns her back but when she doesn't know you're looking you see her cast a furtive eye over her shoulder to make sure you are still following. She is bread crumbs in the forest, the fairy tale that takes a wrong turn. She is blue, she is that minor key, she is laughing at you. Amphibious, she tries to lead you into water, launching herself toward the blurred horizon. Land mammal that you are, you wade in chest deep, stand stock still, feet mired in the muck of the bottom. Your thick brown fur is soaked and briny. There's a great wave coming. Learn to swim. Learn to swim. Learn to swim.