Bad About Writing

I can always bring to term this heavy pregnant balloon of words waiting to burst from me. Or can I? Or will I? I'm just so afraid of the labor pains and whether what emerges will be healthy and beautiful or deformed and sickly. And whether it'll be followed by a sense of catharsis or the deep depression of the post-partum. Something's in there, it's on the upswell, it's starting to kick. The belly of my brain is bloating, it's contracting. Coward, I am, by not pushing I abort.