It isn't the whiteness of the blank page which daunts you.
What erodes your wits is: The great multitude
of imperfections you begin to find upon the once hermetic surface.
The eventual awareness that something is written there already.
A parallel: Descending on a barren desert slowly from on high
and finally beginning to understand that not the most desiccate place is barren.
The conclusion: Self-admission of perception
(not-at-all-worthy of overwriting preexisting creator).