Stripped of my Essence

I was supposed to be writing my novel today but I fear that nothing will come of it.
It just happens that I had a blood test this morning, and into this vile vial, I saw, the evil nurse draw out the essence of my creativity. I watched the blood as it swirled in its glass prison and forever entrapped the seeds of what could have seen the light as literary genius. It was a furious magenta, a rich hue so befitting on long velvet hooded capes, a color that though dark and opaque, verges on transparency. I stumbled out of the clinic, my mind vacant, my body weakened as I had not had breakfast, feeling dizzy from the aggression to which I had been subjected. Now I feel as if a part of me is gone and with it my prose. I feel like a lizard as it waits for its severed limb to regrow. The regeneration will be swift, abrupt and angry. I will use this to inhabit the mind of the most dangerous of my characters and see through His fury. But no extreme exists without the other extreme. And so I will be Her too, torn, desperate and with no hope left in the world.