As the afternoon wears on, our television keeps blaring the emergency signal, with dire warnings of flooding in the far reaches of our county. Although we live a scant mile from a local creek, and my husband swears it was a mere foot from flooding as he investigated this morning, I find the thought of muddy waters spilling over the banks and sweeping through our suburban neighborhood remote. Unthinkable, really.

It won't flood.

I hope.

I'm restless, sniffing the air. Maybe I'm twitchy from two weeks at home with three sick kids, and my own slow recovery. I blogged elsewhere about the panic that struck this morning as I realized that I haven't had a benchmark moment this year. All I know is I'm pawing the ground, tossing my head and snorting, bursting with nervous energy and the urge to back up a few steps, spring from a crouched position into a full gallop and leap over the pasture fence.

The last time I had a major burst of nervous energy like this, I wrote 40,000 words in three weeks, the beginnings of a poorly-crafted novel. I ate little. I slept less. I was consumed. I went through the motions with my family, mind racing ahead, notebooks filling, outlines blossoming.

Then, as fast as the hysteria came on, it disappeared. After three weeks bouncing around like a fly in a jar, the exhaustion flooded into my body, and my mind quieted. I collected my notebooks, and saved my documents, and quietly put that project aside.

Maybe it is the season of resolutions winking at me. Maybe it is my nagging consciousness. Maybe it is Carmen, pumping out thousands of words while raising six children. I feel the fire starting again.

Inspiration. Let me at it.