She'd rewritten the same
paragraph four times and
still couldn't tell if
it was good or just
familiar. The office
hummed around her —
keyboards, phone calls,
the distant laughter of
someone who wasn't
doubting everything they'd
ever written.
Her manager had said "no
rush" three hours ago,
and somehow that made it
worse. No deadline meant
no finish line. Just an
endless stretch of her
own standards, which had
always been higher than
anyone else's.
She saved the document.
Stood up. Walked to the
window.
The parking lot was
unremarkable. Cars sat in
their spaces, doing
nothing, expecting
nothing. She watched them
for a while, then went
back to her desk.
The paragraph was fine.
She was fine. She just
needed to remember that
sometimes.