Anyone else feel a draft?

I have a problem. I seem to lack the capacity to write drafts. Oh, I try. I make valiant efforts to ford that river, but the currents of my perfectionist mind are frequently too swift to find sure footing. Within a sentence or two, I often lose my footing on the slippery rocks of the riverbed and go cascading down the rapids of revision. Even as I write this, my mind is already devising ways to undermine me. "Don't use that word, you use it all the time," I hear. "That sentence wouldn't even make sense to a Harvard lawyer high on coke." Or my personal favorite: "Can't you say anything without using fifty different literary devices? Damn, David, just say it!"

Every time I sit down to write something for the first time, be it poetry, prose, essay, even emails, my mind squares off and prepares to fight itself to the death. At times, the words just flow and I'm able to fight off the blows of my analytical mind. More often, though, I lose myself mid-thought to a flurry of revisions hurled at me with the precision and speed of a Cy Young pitcher. And just when I think I've got his timing down and I'm ready to knock the next pitch out of the park...change-up, whiff, strike three, take a seat, kid.

Why should I care? What does it matter that my draft be laden with metaphor juxtaposed to terrible grammar and incomplete thoughts? No one is gonna see it, right? The point is simply to get something down. Anything. Something. Just write! The ideas will come if I can just give myself enough time to keep going. I know this to be true as my best writing always comes from moments of clarity when I can write my thoughts like a twelve-guage loaded with buckshot. Precision be damned, let's just spray the whole area with lead! When I release my thoughts as so much buckshot into the side of a barn, the page suddenly comes alive with possibilities, and I can carefully review them to find the best themes and ideas. It's like the story of the Texas sharpshooter: A guy takes a hunting rifle and fires many shots into the side of his barn. His shots go wild, but he finds a nice handful of shots that hit close together. So, ignoring the many other shots fired wildly, he circles those four of five in close proximity and brags that he's a sharpshooter. This is much the same way I arrive at all my greatest writings.

Armed with this knowledge, it should now be a simple thing to just press through the draft and be successful...right? I wish! It's still a struggle each time. Yet the more I persist, the quieter the voices become. The more often I write, the less the arguments seem to hold water. The more times I go to bat, the more wild that pitcher becomes. I say screw precision and just bloody write!