Drumming fingers.
Sitting here wondering what to do. I should be working on something. The story I've been working on, perhaps. But I'm at that "what does it matter?" point where knowing it will never be published or read by others causes my interest in doing the work to wain. I forget that I'm writing it for me; an exercise to help my memory, concentration, and mood. I forget that it doesn't matter the story is just stuff that happens to the characters with no real climax; just a rambling narrative that no one would want to read anyway.
Apparently I also forget that I don't have to work on it.
Well I've remembered that now, so I won't.
But I still have nothing to do. Except continue to metaphorically drum my fingers on the table.