Yes, you are making sense. My history has some shared elements with yours, some different. I can tell you that I used to feel on the other side of the big icky collection of junk where it feels like it can overtake your entire being at anytime. It won't always feel that way. I think you once said that it was like a freight train heading straight for you. One day it might be more like a battery operated Thomas the Train

Where to start, what to say next, which pebble to pick up to throw in the pond. It reminds me of Anne LaMott's book on writing, Bird by Bird. She took the title from a little anecdote where her brother had school report due on thirty birds in their state (or something like that). It's the night before it's due, and he's of course overwhelmed by how much work a description of all thirty birds will be. He's crying and freaking out, and asks their dad how he can possibly get it done. Bird by bird, their dad says, and its as much an instruction for getting therapy rolling as a school writing project.

bird by bird, granite. I guess you don't worry about the rest of the flock and you just focus on the bird in your hand.