Sunday was a slog. I woke up convinced I couldn't write. I did a load of laundry, then I opened the document and started editing; took a break; and finally continued the dialogue I'd begun the day before. I wrote nearly a thousand words of dialogue, then worried that this section was too much dialogue...until I remembered, later in the day, that just because I experienced all that dialogue over a period of hours on two successive days, doesn't mean the reader will experience it the same way. Quite the contrary, in fact. Those pages will (or should) just fly by.
I hate that stupid worries like that eat up so much of my brain time. I think it's worse this time, because I'm writing outside of the zone where I've been trapped for the last few years. I can write what I want, and that's harder than being tied to a deadline. With a deadline, you have an excuse to be less careful at certain points, because if you linger too long over small things, you won't finish in time.
I've said it before, and will say it again. The psychology of writing can be as important as the writing itself.