The problem with perfectionists, albeit not the only one, is that they kill things. I know. I am one. I can kill things deader than, well, a doornail.
Perfectionism is a constant companion. It can be quiet for days, weeks, sometimes even months. It’s biding its time, waiting to strike. When it does, it fights dirty. A kick or punch to the kidneys. An elbow to the center of the back.