Obsessive? Who me? Never. Self-doubt never crawls through my mind like a million marching ants, hungry to consume my soul by first devouring my brain. And I never feel as though every writer on the planet is wittier, more eloquent, more talented, and just plain better than me. Of course, this is a lie. A lie I must tell myself when I'm feeling down. Like now. When I'm convinced that I am shit, less talented than the most talentless hack. When I'm convinced no one likes me and the space my body occupies is wasted on me. When I'm drowning in a torrent of negative thoughts that continually rain down and refuse to go away.