I need a word for this feeling, because it's been going on for so long and people are asking me how I am

Ever since Dramagate2k15 blew over, I've had a bizarre feeling. I have definitely been overstretching my time and energy. TI've also felt fulfilled and rewarded, with a surprising nagging guilt about half-assing things that I would love to give my all: my thesis, my friendships, my boyfriend. Adding up all of these feelings... how am I? Good, I guess.

My writing has been going well, but I'm noticing that I hang on the reaction to the piece more than the piece itself. On the one hand it makes sense because by the time I'm anywhere near finished with a piece I hate it, but I wish that my feelings didn't depend so strongly on whether I'm appreciated. I should be proud of the piece whether or not someone tells me it's good.

I had a nightmare that two professors, Morgan and Sonia, thought that I was a bad writer. I haven't even had either of them for a real class. It gave me a tight stomach for hours. I also read most of a really lovely piece on N+1 that made me think I'll never write this well, and I think that's what triggered the bad dream.

Then my friend read both of the essays that I wrote for my Personal Narrative class and was really impressed. Now I think that I'm a good writer again. You see? This is why I studied physics. At least I'm consistently mediocre at that. Or, consistently good at some parts and bad at others. Writing, it seems like it's all or nothing.

It's not even about how good I am now. When I read something really incredible I think could I ever be that good?

That's really a false question, because I could never have imagined when I started this diary how much more fluid my writing would become. But then I wonder: is it neutered? Is it disingenuous? Is there an objective better? Have I stopped writing narratives and started writing scenes? Is everything I write somewhere in between?

These are productive wonderings, not because the answers matter, but because I ask these questions without realizing it in little turns of stomach, in stutters of anxiety; now they're finding words. They matter now in my head instead of my gut, and that means that I can disassemble them.

I guess I see a future in my writing now, not just a present. That's what this writing class has given me. Physics classes have faded my future in science.

The future: murky forever.
Right now: also pretty murky.