The nervous back and forths and the defeatist almost theres

Staring at the empty document on my computer screen, I wonder what kind of real, legitimate substance I can write when half of my mind is on edge. I wait to hear the footsteps near my cubicle, at which point I will hit "minimize", hoping that his eye line does not reach over the cubicle walls. The stop-and-go writing - when does it ever work? It's like hearing a couple seconds of a song and then thinking about only those bars for the rest of the day. But it's never a complete song that way. And you cling to those bars as if you've accomplished knowing the whole song when, in fact, you don't know shit. It has become apparent that there is a constant surveillance around my workspace. Perhaps I am exaggerating, because that NEVER happens.

This blank page keeps staring at me and I begin to wonder if I even have anything to write on it. The fear of some exec somehow seeing the tiny browser tab at the bottom of my computer screen keeps me from writing anything - paralysis by analysis, if you will. Someone could walk by and I will minimize the page immediately, then realize they are walking on the other side of the office. Am I simply self-sabotaging? Setting up a scenario where I can say I tried to write, it was a valiant effort, but all of these extenuating circumstances kept me from doing it. Damn the man! Not my fault, right?

Then I start to wonder if I am clinging to a life, a persona, that was never mine to begin with. I was never that person, that writer. Am I clinging to a life I never had? Feels like I had this life at one point...but is it just my idealistic way of remembering it because I want to be that person? Paralysis by analysis, again. I'm just a perspiring glass clinging to a coaster.

Ahhh...that line makes me cringe.

No, write!

Bah! Minimize!