When I used to suffer from this(no longer, touch wood) I found this extract from Steven Pressfied's "The War of Art" inspiring

"In my late twenties I rented a little house in Northern California; I had gone there to finish a novel or kill myself trying. By that time I had blown up a marriage to a girl I loved with all my heart, screwed up two careers, blah blah, etc., all because (though I had no understanding of this at the time) I could not handle Resistance . I had one novel nine-tenths of the way through and another at ninety-nine hundredths before I threw them in the trash. I couldn't finish 'em. I didn't have the guts. In yielding thusly to Resistance, I fell prey to every vice , evil, distraction, you-name-it mentioned heretofore, all leading nowhere, and finally washed up in this sleepy California town, with my Chevy van, my cat Mo, and my antique Smith-Corona.

A guy named Paul Rink lived down the street. Look him up, he's in Henry Miller's Big Sur and the Oranges of Hieronymus Bosch. Paul was a writer. He lived in his camper, "Moby Dick." I started each day over coffee with Paul. He turned me on to all kinds of authors I had never
heard of, lectured me on self-discipline, dedication, the evils of the marketplace. But best of all, he shared with me his prayer, the Invocation of the Muse from Homer's Odyssey, the T. E. Lawrence translation. Paul typed it out for me on his even-more-ancient-than-mine manual Remington. I still have it. It's yellow and parched as dust; the merest puff would blow it to powder.

In my little house I had no TV. I never read a newspaper or went to a m o v i e . I just worked . One afternoon I was banging away in the little bedroom I had converted to anoffice, when I heard my neighbor's radio playing outside. Someone in a loud voice was declaiming " . . . to preserve, protect, and defend the Constitution of the United States." I came out. What's going on? "Didn't you hear? Nixon's out; they got a new guy in there." I had missed Watergate completely.

I was determined to keep working. I had failed so many times, and caused myself and people I loved so much pain thereby, that I felt if I crapped out this time I would have to hang myself. I didn't know what Resistance was then. No one had schooled me in the concept. I felt it though, big-time. I experienced it as a compulsion to self-destruct. I could not finish what I started. T h e closer I got, the more different ways I'd find to screw it up. I worked for twenty-six months straight, taking only two out for a stint of migrant labor in Washington State, and finally one day I got to the last page and typed out:
THE END.

I never did find a buyer for the book. Or the next one, either. It was ten years before I got the first check for something I had written and ten more before a novel, The Legend of Bagger Vance, was actually published. But that moment when I first hit the keys to spell out THE END was epochal.

I remember rolling the last page out and adding it to the stack that was the finished manuscript. Nobody knew I was done. Nobody cared. But I knew. I felt like a dragon I'd been fighting all my life had just dropped dead at my feet and gasped out its last sulfuric breath. Rest in peace, motherfucker.

Next morning I went over to Paul's for coffee and told him I had finished. " Good for y o u , " he said without looking up. "Start the next one today."

"

So now I just work. Decoupling work from one's emotional state is just a habit more than anything else. A few "Rest in Peace MF er " moments of my own taught me that.