You have to let it go at one point. And you do.
There was work to be done. The process honored. Drafts were born and died at the feet of their superior descendants.
That’s how this world works.
The world of the writer is death and resurrection. Our work is fluid, never completely ours, and is no more permanent than our individual breaths.
Writing allows fleeting thoughts to crystallize and be captured. In their captivity they evolve, becoming something else. But each step is equally important. No draft can be skipped. Five pages of garbage can produce the seed of an idea so powerful and true that it survives the burning of the rest, living to see those two resounding words that finish the final draft: The End.
Then all that’s left to do is to ship it.
Get it out there. It can’t be any better than it is — if you’ve really put in the work.