I was feeling good about my WIP, stringing words into sentences, sentences into paragraphs when the quicksand found me. I struggled to escape, to find firmer ground, but every action pulled me deeper into darkness. My heart pounded like a jackhammer. My throat closed. I couldn't move. Couldn't breathe. I was in over my head.

Sharp writhing shapes pressed against me, their claws tearing at me as they worked their way toward the page. I was helpless; terrified and appalled by the darkness, the manic madness that emerged from my fingers. The pulsing stain oozed across the page, desecrating the virgin white space, leaving only darkness and despair.  

Fear. My fear makes them stronger an emotional feedback loop. The rising gorge of horror and desolation threaten to consume me. I fight grimly, but my strength. God, my strength and focus are failing. Thousands more press against me.  My struggle attracts the. It fuels their frenzy, their satisfaction.  I'm...I'm losing control.  My