I'm on the edge of publishing my first book.

I should be elated, right? After all, this is the dream. Late nights and self-doubt, character arcs that refused to bend, deleted scenes that still haunt my documents folder, gut-punch edits that left me questioning everything I thought I knew about storytelling. All of it leading to this moment: a final manuscript, a cover that captures something I couldn't say in words, a title that finally feels true. Soon, it will be real. Tangible. Public.

And yet, what I feel isn't elation. It's fear.