Petulance all over again.

Finally, after months of having to (or getting to, depending on your perspective) postpone revising my newest essay for resubmission to the journal that might want it if the revisions are successful, I am tackling this task. And I don't like it, not one bit: don't like the feelings of sloppiness and looseness that creep in when I start trying to explain things, don't like the sneaky (and, I can only hope, utterly wrong) worry that after I devote hours to the revision, the journal won't want the piece after all, don't like sitting at the computer to tap out these new lines and burrow them into the old draft. I know that no one likes these parts of writing, that I'm not special in my feelings of frustration and of fear. I don't like the fact that that knowledge doesn't make it easier for me to persevere, though persevere I will, all in the hopes that--as I believe I said back in February--what I'm really disliking is being disconnected from my material, having to putter around on its edges until I rediscover my way in, that moment when things click and turn and whirr and I feel as though I'm doing something that I want to be doing for its own sake, not just something that will allow me to fill in a box beside the question so just what were you doing all year?