Last semester, I spent three weeks on a five-page essay. Three weeks. For five pages. I rewrote the introduction eleven times. Eleven. I changed my thesis four times. I reorganized my paragraphs so many times that I lost track of what I was even arguing anymore. 
The deadline came. I wasn't ready. I asked for an extension. My professor said no. I submitted something I hated — a Frankenstein monster of half-finished ideas and awkward sentences.
I got a B.
A B. Not an F. Not a D. A perfectly respectable B.
I stared at my grade for a long time. I had spent three weeks chasing an A. I got a B. And honestly? The paper I submitted wasn't that different from the draft I had after week one.
Here's what I learned: My first draft was fine. Not perfect. But fine. The next two weeks of revisions made maybe a 5% improvement. Five percent! For two weeks of work!
Now I have a rule. I write one draft. I revise it once. Then I submit it. Unless something is genuinely broken, I don't go back.
My grades haven't changed. My stress has dropped dramatically.
Perfectionism is a trap. It makes you think that more time equals better work. But after a certain point, you're just rearranging furniture. The house is fine. Stop moving the couch.
I wish someone had told me this freshman year. Would have saved me so much anxiety.
The deadline came. I wasn't ready. I asked for an extension. My professor said no. I submitted something I hated — a Frankenstein monster of half-finished ideas and awkward sentences.
I got a B.
A B. Not an F. Not a D. A perfectly respectable B.
I stared at my grade for a long time. I had spent three weeks chasing an A. I got a B. And honestly? The paper I submitted wasn't that different from the draft I had after week one.
Here's what I learned: My first draft was fine. Not perfect. But fine. The next two weeks of revisions made maybe a 5% improvement. Five percent! For two weeks of work!
Now I have a rule. I write one draft. I revise it once. Then I submit it. Unless something is genuinely broken, I don't go back.
My grades haven't changed. My stress has dropped dramatically.
Perfectionism is a trap. It makes you think that more time equals better work. But after a certain point, you're just rearranging furniture. The house is fine. Stop moving the couch.
I wish someone had told me this freshman year. Would have saved me so much anxiety.
