Fever. When the dam breaks and the words spill out of control. When the words stream through a tunnel, a funnel, lit by a draft at the other end. When all else is shoved aside, the fever screaming until its work is done. Can’t stop until it’s done.
The words that so often don’t come overcrowd the mind, apologizing with this fever, this perfect mix of words and ideas that you’re afraid won’t come back again, that will run out before the work is done. Thus the frantic race between mind and fingertips ignites.