I can’t sleep. Again. It’s 2:17 AM and I’m staring at the damn ceiling, the baby finally down, after like, what, three hours of rocking? My back is killing me. And all I can think about is *it*. The manuscript. It’s… it’s almost done. Like, 95% done. The ending is there, it’s just… not written. And I can’t make myself do it. I just can’t. It’s crazy, right? To be so close to something you’ve wanted your whole life. Like, since I was a kid, since I first picked up a pen, this is what I wanted. To write a *real* book. Not just stories for myself, not just little things, but a BOOK. And now it’s there. Within reach. And I’m just… frozen. Stuck. Because the thing is, I think it’s good. No, not good. I think it’s… really good. Like, I’ve read it, and I’ve tried to be objective, and it’s got that… *thing*. That hook. That *oomph*. The kind of book that, if it gets picked up, if it gets pushed, it could actually… blow up. And that’s what scares the absolute hell out of me. My agent, bless her heart, she keeps calling, all chirpy, "Just send it over, darling! Let’s get it out there!" She has no idea. She thinks I’m just struggling with the ending, with the pressure. She’s probably picturing me, you know, holed up in some coffee shop, dramatically ripping pages out. Ha. If only. I’m usually rocking a screaming infant or trying to explain fractions to a seven-year-old who just wants to play Minecraft. My life is… domestic chaos. All the time. And that’s the problem. That’s the real, unspoken fear. What if it *is* a bestseller? What then? Because I know what that means. It means book tours. It means interviews. It means being on panels, smiling for cameras, shaking hands, doing readings. It means being *on*. All the time. And I can’t. I just… can’t. My whole existence right now is about making sure everyone else is okay. Getting breakfast on the table, wiping snotty noses, remembering doctor’s appointments, sorting out school projects, making dinner, doing the laundry, listening to my partner vent about work. My brain is like, a thousand tabs open, all of them critical. There’s no space for… *me*. Not really. Not the public version of me. I tried to explain it to my friend, but she just looked at me like I was insane. "Are you serious? You’re *afraid* of success? People would kill for that!" And yeah, I know. I sound like a total privileged idiot. But she doesn’t get it. She doesn’t have this life. She doesn’t have tiny hands constantly reaching for her, little voices needing her attention, a never-ending list of things only *I* can do. I mean, I don't even — whatever. It’s just… the thought of having to pretend to be this poised, brilliant author while inside I’m wondering if I remembered to defrost the chicken, or if I’m going to miss the school pick-up again, or if I accidentally left the gas on… it’s too much. The idea of trading my quiet, messy, private life for something so… public and demanding, when I’m already stretched thinner than butter on too much toast. It feels like a trap. A golden cage. And part of me just wants to keep it hidden, keep it mine, so I don’t have to face that choice. So I don't have to choose between *them* and *it*. Because I know which one I’d have to pick. And it wouldn't be the book.