What It Feels Like to Write

Every time I write a story or a poem, especially if it's something more personal, I get a weird feeling I have never really been able to explain. I even get it sometimes after writing an entry here, on the blog, if the entry is something personal, or something I haven't realized before actually putting it down in words.
I know that some people really work on their writings, correcting them and changing them in one way or another, but for me, even correcting spelling mistakes is sometimes difficult.
I often stay silent for a long while thinking about the video where Elizabeth Gilbert talks about inspiration and genius (I posted the link in a previous post somewhere), and how it applies to me. None of the things she said, basically, ring exactly true to me.
The thing that would be closest to my inspiration process is the one where she described that poet running to the house for a pen and paper, and if she didn't get there in time, it would rush over her and go find another poet, or if she got there just in time she could grab the poem and write it, but backwards. Obviously, this doesn't happen to me, but like I said, this is the closest it gets.
For me, the slightest stir of imagination can cause a chain reaction that through several connections leads from A to Z in a flash and I can feel that there is a poem in there, waiting for me to write it down. And if I don't write it down right then and there, it will disappear.
Say, from the word 'dishwasher', which is supposedly a rather uninspiring word, I get a sense that there is something in it, something that will lead to something else. For example, through association with the noise it makes, and because it reminds me of a rather weird and chaotic song about flying toasts, it creates a feeling of distress. It makes me imagine someone with great anxiety, holding on to their head, covering their face and ears, to make the noise stop. And then, somehow, this leads to a scene of a field, green, sunny, airy, bright. Trees and birds singing. A happy, peaceful place. And there is the poem, waiting to be written. Not actually having anything to do with a dishwasher, even though it was this which started the whole process.

Anyhow, the point was to talk about the feeling I get afterwards. As I said, it is hard to describe, but it's somehow like a part has gone missing in me. A sort of emptiness. It's as if the poem, or story, or thought, that I had in me, waiting to be let out, becomes an entity separate from myself, causing me to temporarily feel sort of alone, and like I had just lost something important. I guess it's true, too. I write for myself, and when I show someone else what I have written, it is always a moment of fear and hesitation. Panic, even. And the mere act of adding something on a website or a blog means that there is a possibility of someone reading what I have written. A very slight possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. It stops being mine, but anyone who stumbles on it somehow may relate to it and add it to their lives.

I don't think of myself as a good writer, so I don't even trust people when they tell me they like something. I insist on details; why do you like it? what in it is good? what did you think about the title? how about the ending? the part where it talks about this and this? do you think the rhythm works in it? what didn't you like at all?
The problem is that no one ever seems very willing to give answers to these questions... I've never really had anyone to talk to about the things I write, so there might lie the reason for this.