When you actually want to write a story, you have to shut all that down. Quiet the music, huddle in a storm shelter, in an empty quiet room where you are alone with your white space. You can't dance and sing in the ecstatic release of feeling--you're working a pick-axe against the rocks with a solid, busy, numbing rhythm, cracking the solid and brilliant mental story you had into a thousand pieces--words, sentences, paragraphs.
(Oh, you *can* keep the mental music on, play it loud, but I've seen the results of that ecstatic delusion, and they're almost always sad, sad, sad.)
Plus, sometimes you get that one scene, that one moment, which is a logical culmination of all your effortful fantasizing, and you want to write that and show it to people so that they get it, and the trouble is, you can't just rip it out of your head and offer it up--you have to work at laying all that background first.
Words, words, words.
I'm still not to the point where I want to turn the music off, and it's interfering with all my attempts to work.
Anyway. My god, Buffy was mind-blowingly great tonight. I'm still absorbing it. The wild laughter, the tears. I feel sorry for people who've come to hate the show. I just...feel sorry. Yeah.