... and this is what I wrote about it today, in a comment at 'imaginary garden with real toads' whose prompts I have been using. (The garden closed at the end of 2019, but has re-opened just for April.)
O yes, I remember – it's mid-month, my Muse is flagging, everything I write seems to me both prosey and banal, I make vows that this is the very last time I'll do a poem a day in April.... And then I remember, too, that this happens every year!
If only I could remember how I have managed to get myself out of it in the past! I think it might have to do with keeping on writing, eventually writing myself out of it. Meanwhile I plod on, longing for the wings to unfold.