Sighing deeply, I attempt to rouse myself once more,  the thought occurred to me that before technology, writer's block had an outlet. 

Crumpled sheets of paper would fill the trash,  one could determine the severity of the block by its state of overflow. 

Crumpling the paper was, in itself, therapeutic.

A rabbit hole appeared before me.  Thoughts persist.  If I follow them I might disappear into it for days.

In today's society, a writer who uses paper runs the risk of cancellation and being labeled an eco-terrorist, it's enough to give you anxiety.

The rabbit hole snaps shut. I disappear.