I Should Be Writing

No more excuses now remain, and yet
I have yet to take up that which I've longed
To do in earnest. Failure seems to get
The best of me ere I've begun. I'm wronged
In this by no one but myself. I'm mocked
Not by the blank page or the new-filled pen,
But by old habits of belief and thought
(The former more like disbelief; I've been
My nemesis for too long, know the tricks
Best played to thwart me -- when to mimic fear,
And when to use plain loathing so it sticks
There in the mind, so each and ev'ry year
It's harder to get started). How to silence these
But not the needed voices? Tell me, please.