Fry from Futurama

Returning to the words
That have gestated and grown
Will they work
Or reveal my first draft stumbles?
*
Music turned on
To break the itching silence
As I sit down to peruse
And carve out broken bits
*
Fix a sentence here
Delete a word there
Bursts of progress
That feel draining to the mind
*
Not as much to change
As you dreamed and feared
The story is solid
Which chills you to the bone
*
The rule emerges
To scrap most of what you did
You see others swear
That this is how it goes
*
Anxiety takes hold
And you let the red ink fly
Unsure if your editing is true
Or misguided by doubt