A Smattering of Self-Doubt

Just like when my first son was born, I'm afraid I have no idea what I'm doing.

All of my life I've had this reoccurring dream that I was late, very late for something important. Try as I may, no matter how hard I tried to focus in and reach my destination, I was alas completely sidetracked. Back in high school it was always football practice. I'd be on a bicycle, unable to peddle fast enough to make it to the school on time in order to suite up my pads, tie up my cleats, and get down to the field before warm-ups. And if I did per chance make the field just in the nick-of-time, I'd realize right at the end that I was missing my helmet.
Later, in college and for the... oh crap, what now - fourteen years since I graduated, it has been that I'm late getting back to school for the semester. It's either my old Ford Ranger keeps breaking down on Interstate 80 outside of Laramie, or, like some old Jerry Lewis character who can't walk upright without crapping his pants, I just keep on forgetting when the first day of school starts. Again, if I do get on campus by the first week, it suddenly occurs to me that I've forgotten which classes I'd registered for, dooming me to wander aimlessly, trying to seek out my advisor to print out my schedule for me. (For the record this was pre-internet days boys and girls) Or my personal favorite, the one where it is late in the semester and I just realized that I'd never attended one or two of my classes at all over the course of the term, dooming me to a failing grade due to my own thoughtlessness and stupidity.
Sometimes these sorts of deep-rooted anxieties creep into me about my writing. What if I am missing some obvious key element that might make the work stand up, pound its chest, and, declare its alpha-male status above others. Or, what if I just plain suck? What if I'm no better at writing than I was at high school football?
What if I'm just wasting my time?
Try as I may, I can never shake my own doubts about the work. I remember back when I was trying my hand at stand-up comedy. I always knew if something worked instantly by the reaction of the crowd. As one can imagine it was pretty obvious- if people laughed, it worked, if I got the glassy-eyed stare, or worse - the dreaded polite clap or even heckle, it was time to rethink that material. Now, when I write, I have no idea how it will go over, whether it will have the effect that I'm aiming for. Writing a narrative outside of maybe caring for a newborn baby for the first time has been one of the hardest things I've ever tried to do.
And just like a newborn baby or even high school football practice, I had no idea at the beginning just how much shit I'd have to deal with.