My relationship to my own work is neurotic. Maybe it is for you too.

After I finished a poem, I generally feel a sense of completion, of pride, a lingering sense of accomplishment—a writerly euphoria at having translated something intangible into tangile language. A lot of times, I read poems I just wrote over and over during the first 48 hours, like I want to make sure it’s still breathing.

And then the honeymoon’s over. It will probably take two years for me to like a poem again. In fact, it wasn’t until I put my thesis together that I actually started liking some of them again, and even now, already, that euphoria is wearing off and I think things like, “This will never go anywhere.” “This is an obvious attempt to subvert irony, which every good editor will see through.” “This is too cute.” “This isn’t cute enough.” “This poem is like a rocking chair without legs.” “These sections are too obvious.” “My images are trite.” “Nobody cares about stuff like this.” Etc.