New Year’s resolutions have always struck me as psychic downers-in-the-making. Sure, I’d love to lose ten pounds. But between my age-impaired metabolism and a husband who loves to cook, it’s not looking real hopeful.

Besides, I’m good at making myself miserable without penning resolutions I’m pretty much guaranteed to fail at. Take my writing, for example. I spent the entire week before Christmas doing holiday-related stuff—and not working on the stack of revisions my editor had sent me. Of course, that didn’t mean I wasn’t worrying about them.

“My confidence is shot,” I told my husband. “I can’t do this. I don’t think I  can write another word.”

He had the gall to smile in the midst of my bleakest hour. “That’s what you always say right before you start on something.”

“Do not.”

“Do so.”

Okay, not going to set any world records on the mature eloquence of our conversation.

But that annoying know-it-all husband of mine was right. The day after Christmas, I dragged myself to my computer, convinced I was doomed to hell, otherwise known as writer’s block.

That’s when the strangest thing happened. I typed in a word, then another. And another. Possibly total crap, but that wasn’t the point. I was working again, and it felt good.

So maybe New Year’s Resolutions aren’t so bad. In fact, when it comes to my writing, I’m going to make one: Spend less time panicking and beating myself up and more time just doing the work. For me, “butt in chair” ranks as the only way to ward off the anxiety monster.