This happens to me every time I release a new album.
It feels like the musician's version of "postpartum depression" or "baby blues".
After working on, living with, and creating a new album of music, sometimes for as long as 2 years, it has become my "perfect little baby". I've put all of my creative energy into it. I've nurtured it, cared for it, improved it, and gotten it ready for the world. Until that moment that the master is released to the CD factory, and it's been uploaded to iTunes, etc., it has only existed in the safety of my studio, free from all criticism.
Then, that day arrives.
I've gotten the music to be as perfect as it can be. I've approved the final master, and hit "Upload" on the digital music dashboard. I've chosen the album's release date. Now, all I can do is hope for the best. There is no turning back. The music has left the studio, and in some ways it has left my life, to live its own life "out there" in the real world.
It's exciting... and it's terrifying.
A wave of thoughts floods my mind: "Will anyone like this? Will others love this music as much as I've loved it? Will it get any airplay? Will people be moved to buy the album so that it can become a part of their lives?"
As I wait for these questions to be answered, something else happens: I feel empty.
After all, for the last 2 years, I've been completely immersed in this musical world, discovering it, exploring it, and living in it. It has been my "safe place". Now, it's gone, and I feel vulnerable, naked, alone.
From experience, I know that these feelings eventually fade away, as the music is absorbed into the world. Eventually, I feel better, and I start thinking about the next creative challenge.
Today, though, I'm not quite there yet.