Contrary to much popular advice and opinions, creativity – at a neurobiological level – isn't just about inspiration or discipline. It requires a particular nervous system state. To create, we need to be regulated enough to be present, open enough to play, and grounded enough to sustain attention.

When your nervous system is running on fumes – braced against the next demand, holding years of activation, constantly scanning for what needs attention – creative energy becomes a luxury you can't afford. Not because you don't want to create, but because your system is using every available resource just to keep you upright.

Hyperarousal might look like scattered thoughts, restless energy, starting ten things and finishing none. You have ideas but they feel frantic, untethered. You can't settle into anything long enough for it to deepen.

Depletion is different. Blank mind. Heavy body. The creative spark that used to ignite so easily now feels unreachable, like it belongs to someone you used to be.

Both of these states are your nervous system trying to tell you something.

Why 'just create anyway' doesn't work

There's a particular kind of advice that floats around creative communities: show up anyway. Do it even when you don't feel like it. Discipline over inspiration.

And yes, sometimes that works. Sometimes the act of beginning is what opens the door.

But when your nervous system is dysregulated, forcing productivity usually just makes it worse. You might produce something, sure. But at what cost? The depletion deepens. The well runs drier. You're not building a sustainable practice, you're mining yourself.

If you're wired and scattered, creativity needs grounding first. Not discipline, but actual regulation. Something that helps your system settle.

If you're depleted and blank, creativity needs resourcing. Not pushing through, but genuine replenishment. Space for your nervous system to remember it's allowed to play.

The invitation isn't to abandon your creative practice. It's to tend to the conditions that make it possible in the first place.

What creative energy actually needs

I work with a lot of people who've lost touch with their creative energy. Often they're changemakers, carers, people doing work that matters. They used to make things – art, writing, music, campaigns, projects that felt alive. But somewhere along the way the demands piled up, the pace accelerated and creativity fell away.

What I've noticed is that creativity doesn't disappear. It just goes quiet when there's no space to hold it.

When you're hyperaroused – wired, restless, scattered – your body needs to discharge some of that activation. Movement that's bigger than your usual routine. A walk that actually gets your heart rate up. Dancing in your kitchen. Shaking out your hands and arms like you're flinging water off them. Breath that emphasises the exhale. Grounding through your feet – literally feeling the floor, the weight of your body, the temperature of the ground.

Not to "get creative" but to create the conditions where your system can settle enough to focus.

When you're depleted – blank, heavy, disconnected – forcing productivity will only make it worse. What you need is actual nourishment. Rest that's restful, not just scrolling. Connection with people, with nature, with something that reminds you you're not alone. Gentle sensory pleasure. Warmth on your skin. A texture you love. Music that reaches something in you.

Permission to not produce anything at all for a while.

This is how your nervous system recovers enough capacity to create again. Not through forcing or discipline, but through listening.

The environment matters

Your surroundings affect your nervous system, which means they affect your creative capacity. Harsh fluorescent lights, cluttered spaces, constant noise, stale air – these aren't just uncomfortable, they're activating. Your nervous system has to work harder to feel safe, which leaves less energy for creativity.

I'm not suggesting you need a perfect studio or ideal conditions. But small shifts can create surprising spaciousness. Open a window. Fresh air and natural light. Tidy your desk just enough that it doesn't add to the overwhelm. Add something living – a plant, cut flowers, even a bowl of water.

Go outside, even briefly. Feel your feet on grass. Look up at the sky. Notice the clouds, trees, the way light moves.

These aren't productivity hacks. They're simple, everyday ways of signalling to your nervous system that it's safe. And from that softer place, creativity becomes accessible again.

When the well runs dry

There are seasons when creative work just isn't available. Maybe you're in a period of intense caregiving. Or navigating grief. Or simply exhausted from years of giving more than you had.

The most creative thing you can do in these times is rest. Let your nervous system recover. Let the well refill without demanding it produce anything.

I know this can feel terrifying, especially if creativity has been central to your identity or livelihood. There's a fear that if you stop, you'll never start again. That the inspiration will leave permanently.

But creativity isn't that fragile. Our capacity to create is woven into who we are. It doesn't disappear because you rest. It waits. And it usually returns in ways that surprise you.

The rhythm returns

Creativity has always moved in cycles. High-energy bursts followed by quiet incubation. Periods of visible output and periods of internal gathering.

What we've lost in productivity culture is the understanding that both are necessary. That the fallow times aren't laziness or failure – they're how the soil becomes fertile again.

Your nervous system knows this rhythm. It moves naturally through states of activation and rest, arousal and recovery. When you work with these cycles instead of against them, creativity becomes sustainable. You start to trust that each phase serves the others. That the quiet isn't absence, it's preparation.

Embracing the ebbs and flows

When you stop pathologising creative ebbs and start understanding them as information, something shifts.

You stop battling yourself. Stop feeling guilty for not producing when your body is depleted. Stop forcing output when what you need is rest.

You develop the capacity to notice: what does my nervous system need right now? And some days the answer is make the thing. Other days it's walk outside and look at the birds.

Your relationship with creativity becomes less about discipline and more about attunement. Less about pushing through and more about creating the conditions where inspiration can arrive.

The work you make from this place is different. More aligned. More honestly yours.