Knocking the Bastard Off

Last night I wrote roughly 2,800 words on my Nano and then proceeded to drink Smoking Loon cabernet and dance around in my bathrobe to Opeth's "The Drapery Falls" while waving a lit stick of nag champa in the other hand. It's moments like this that make life seem all right.
Today I am stuck again, and the novel-writing again feels like pulling teeth. Add to it that I just stupidly sliced a gash in my thumb while trying to open a bag of chicken with which to make quesadillas. I know when the universe is trying to give me hints. It will be macaroni and cheese tonight.
I have been thinking a lot lately about how every time some crisis arises, my first instinct/reaction is to fall apart/cry/panic, and then collect myself and look at the situation more calmly and rationally, outline a plan, and move on. I don't know what it will take to learn to bypass that awful first stage. Honestly. I just go to pieces.
And now, my thumb properly cleaned and bandaged, I will return to the writing of the shitty first draft of my novel.
As the kiwis say, "Chuck me a beer and I'll go knock off another thousand words, ski down a mountain, catch a dozen fish for dinner, kill a wild boar, and I'll see you before the sun sets."