When Will It End?

I'm writing two full-length plays. One had been waiting on the hot plate for comments for the past six months and was finally brought back onto the main range, yesterday. I feel like I need to pysch myself up -- run around in the woods like Ted in "The Doors 2" -- or something. Sometimes I feel like I'm beating my head against the wall. There's always something else to do, and it never seems to end. Ultimately, I enjoy it, but facing another major revision, I feel like setting something on fire -- like an old couch -- and dancing around the flames, drinking gin from a plastic bottle. Maybe then, after I've done that, I'll be ready.