Or possibly post-short-story ennui. None of my ideas are shiny today, all of my characters are as annoying as younger siblings, I can't write my way out of a paper bag, no matter how well I write, nobody will ever buy anything I've written again, and I have no clue what happens next in my novel.
And I don't care.
I think this might be God's way of telling me to go for a walk. But I'll see if I can get some words on the page anyway.