I walk into the house. It smells terrible.
Me: I shall light this pine-scented candle that found its way to our home around Christmastime. That will be most lovely, despite the way that it quickly becomes overwhelming.
two seconds pass
Me: What the hell smells so piney? Are trees growing through the foundation of my very home, bringing with them a scent reminiscent of Christmastime?
This is what happens to a writer's brain just before, in the middle of, or after a project. It is a sad reality.