Strange, the closer I come to finishing the first draft of Only the Gulls are Content, the more nervous I become and the more convinced I am I have written a pile of poo.
I haven't been helped by technology. The file for chapter seventeen escaped overnight and returned corrupted - that's Brighton for you. Fortunately I had saved an earlier version; nevertheless, all the work of the previous week had to be re-written last week. And of the thousand words I wrote over the weekend, six hundred will have to go into the recycling bin - in the deathly phrase favoured by political commentators, they were not on tune.
I've never been one to climb every mountain, but I have heard tell the last hundred feet are the hardest. Or have I just made that up?
This attack of nerves is familiar. The closer I come to end of any project the more apprehensive I become the quality of my work is just not good enough.
Is it just me? Is it time to visit someone in a white coat?