The final word of my initial draft
Cuts like a fiery sword into my brain,
And in my frenzy I shall seize the haft-
For editing I’ll need it’s blade again!

For even as I celebrate the end
Of that most painful process of producing
Fictional fabric which sharp eyes will rend
Into which criticisms I’ll be loosing.

Such skirmishes do not result in wounds
Excepting those that land upon my pride.
But to my faults I am kindly attuned,
Particularly when my brain is fried.

I’ll let my story sing me off to sleep,
Regardless of how much of it I keep.