That is the problem with poets. It is a fear that has been programmed into their fingertips. The fear of that one line not measuring up, making anything written before or after it, a failure.
Lay your body on the ground poet. Murmur your confessions on the ghosts of soles that have drum passed this journey before. Plant a stream of words on the road less travelled and watch them grow into something all your own. Pick the wild ones and place them into a vase. Watch the hunger of beauty transform the tip of your pen.