All's Silent within Me

The wellspring of my creativity, the river current from which I fish a bounty of thoughtful, and thought-provoking ideas, seems to have dried.

It's fickle now. Where it was once a raging torrent that I could barely contain, it's now only a trickle, sometime's heartened by a season's flirtatious thaw. Even then, as I try to wring something from it, it flutters and find itself frightened away by reality. The assault on my abilities, the lack of faith in me. The ideas recoil from this, leaving me numb. Safe, but numb.

I attempted to write today, and nearly panicked when I put my pen to paper, and nothing came forward. In the past, it was almost automation. The words were already there, I just had to make them real.

Now. There's nothing. When I close my eyes and clear my head, it feels as though there is a giant wad of cotten where once there was a great hall of resounding and rebounding thought.
It's all silent now. No great, terrible, wonderful thoughts come from me anymore.

I think it'll only be a few years before I'm so well adjusted as a person that you would not be able to identify me from the common sheep.

Good Lord, what has happened to me? And will I ever be the same again?