Risk a verse

How many times have I sat down to write When I worry over whether I might Not touch base with my fickle muse Without whose inspiration I will lose Whatever poetic conceits come to mind At which point I would feel totally resigned To leaving my pages unscribbled and blank As I felt my energy ebb and my spirit sank Then did faint stirrings tickle my brain As I hoped I could begin again To venture to concoct my story Every new poem being a step towards glory Though doubts about my efforts remain How long can budding poets ever be sane? The torture of trying to find the right word Forever renders such a struggle totally absurd