I’ve sent off a new manuscript to my agent.
This is the
♦best feeling ever
♦worst feeling ever
Pick one. Or both.
I thought about the story for a year. Worked on it for seven months. Revised it. Revised it again. Made my husband read the whole thing at least twice. Got to the point where if it had stayed in my computer for ONE MORE MINUTE I would have gone mad.
Pressed SEND. Died a little.
I had an editor once who asked me, when I turned in a contracted manuscript, “Do you love it?” 
Um, yes. I wouldn’t have sent it in otherwise.
I think what she was really asking was, “Will it get starred reviews? Will it sell enough to justify its print run? Is it great?”
To those questions, if they had actually been asked, I probably would have replied:
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t know.
I don’t think it’s my job to know these things. It’s my job to write the best story I can write and then press SEND. I can hope that it sells, that it gets good reviews, that it’s great. (I can really, really hope so.)
But I can’t know anything for sure except that I’ve written the best story I can write.
And I’ve pressed SEND.