A writer never has a vacation.
To me, there is no rest for Thanksgiving, Christmas or any other holiday whether it is religious or not. As a struggling writer, all days are the same to me, a struggle to find a reason to write.
The scan can say what they will, but I know what I feel. I have lost all the drive I had until two years ago; an analogy for dementia is seeing a keyboard but only seeing blank keys.
I am not sure if it was the death of our dogs, the realization that my dream of being recognized as a writer vanishing or another reason, but I feel dead inside, and I have reached the stage of not caring what happens.