Worry about not writing.
Dream up impossible-to-achieve-self-imposed deadlines for publishing your novel.
Catastrophise how you will feel when you read your editor’s comments once they return your manuscript.
Indulge in self-flagellation as if you are an adherent to the Catholic doctrine of mortification of the flesh, for all and any reason whatsoever, but mostly because you didn’t write X, Y or Z into your plot and it’s too late now.
You can enjoy the fact that you have some time to yourself where you don’t have to focus on the (let’s face it) hard work of publishing a novel (why do we do this, why?!) and either totally kick back and put your feet up (I don’t have that gene, sorry!), or turn your gaze to something else that you enjoy creating.
Oh, you’re asking me what I’ve been doing? No, no, that’s not how this works… that’s for me to know and for you to just guess about.
(Ahem… I may have been going down the dark road. And then I may have thrown myself into other creative pursuits and created self-imposed obligations out of them too).
But that’s just between us, okay?