I am a drinker with a writing problem

As I mentioned earlier in my blogging, since being a stay-at-home mum (makes it sound easy but I've actually spent 5 years running around as though my arse was on fire) for half a decade, my brain has turned to mush(well- the academic side at any rate-some parts connected to irrational fears about paedophiles and anxiety about the correct fit of Clarks shoes have developed beyond their necessity). For example, as you will know if you are a regular reader, I was so enthralled by studying again that the first time I sat down to do my course, I fell into a very deep sleep. The course is now ticking by, and I'm completing my first proper assignment this week. I thought it would be a good idea to go to the library to escape the pressures of housewifery (as an aspiring novelist, the piles of ironing and washing up get bigger but it's the price you pay-and I'd rather have a messy flat and be creative, than live in an ultra tidy flat with nothing happening- if you ever come round to my flat and it's spotless tell me to get on with my writing as I'm obviously not doing enough). It all started off good- I sat down and was just enjoyably (I know- scary) absorbed in indents and en-dashes when red spots started to appear on the page. I was having a f+@"ing nose bleed! My brain was now, unable to nod off, going into overdrive and was so confused by the signals to learn about editing as opposed to the words to 'Little Donkey' it had decided to blow a vessel!
Oh the embarrassment. It's like it's trying to tell me something. I'm off to do the ironing. That will calm my mind. (my neurons: "Ah good- she is doing something mundane again- relax girls. Let's hope she doesn't try any of that wordy learning malarkey again or we might just explode from the shock")