First edits vs. Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD)

So, it's happening.

After what feels like roughly one thousand years of writing, rewriting, second-guessing, deleting, undeleting, and waiting, my debut novel is going to be going through a proper editing process this autumn.

I’m excited, curios and anxious, all simultaneously at a volume that most people reserve for natural disasters.

And the reason is potentially a little more complicated than your average first-time author nerves. Three words: Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria. A ‘lovely’ aspect of my autism.

Wait! What's Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria?

Glad you asked! (Or didn't ask, but I'm going to tell you anyway, because explaining things in more detail than is strictly necessary is one of my abilities.)

Rejection Sensitive Dysphoria (RSD) is an intense emotional response to the perception of rejection, failure, or criticism. And I want to emphasise that word: perception. RSD doesn't wait for actual rejection. It doesn't even need evidence and it’s highly proactive. For example, it’ll see a slightly delayed text reply and have you fully convinced you've somehow ruined a friendship before you've even put the kettle on.

RSD is commonly associated with Autism and ADHD. It's not a weakness or a sign that you're "too sensitive." It's a neurological difference in how the brain processes emotional pain. Rejection, real or imagined, doesn't just sting. It hurts.

Typical emotional pain? A 4 out of 10. Maybe 6 on a rough day. RSD? Starts at an 11 and asks if you'd like to go higher.

The good news is that it passes. The less good news, while it's happening, it’s spectacularly convincing.

So why on Earth am I excited about editing?

Because I love a challenge, mostly. But also because getting to the editing stage means I finished a novel. An actual novel. With a beginning, a middle, an end, and characters I love enough to share with the world. The fact that my brain is gearing up for an Olympic-level anxiety spiral is, in a strange way, proof of how much this matters to me.

And here's the thing about RSD that nobody puts on the motivational posters, the same intensity that makes criticism feel catastrophic also makes creative passion feel electric. I don't do lukewarm. When I love something I've written, I really love it. When I'm excited about a story, if I’m asked about it, I’ll talk about it until everyone in the room has quietly backed out of the door.

The editing experience is going to be a challenge. I know that. But I'm choosing to walk into it with my eyes open, armed with self-awareness, a solid coping toolkit, and an absolutely unreasonable amount of coffee.

What will editing actually involve?

For those new to the publishing process like me, first edits aren’t someone simply correcting your typos and sending you a gold star. Oh, how I wish.

Depending on the type of edit, the editor might:

• Restructure entire plot arcs — "This subplot in chapter seven? It needs to go."

• Question character motivations — "I'm not sure I believe she'd do this."

• Suggest cutting scenes you love — scenes you bled onto the page, scenes you are personally, emotionally attached to in a way that is probably not entirely healthy.

• Highlight pacing issues — "The middle third drags."

• Point out continuity errors — (apparently my character can't be part of a conversation two chapters after he died. Who knew.)

Every single one of those notes, even delivered with the utmost kindness and professionalism, is going to land in my brain like a small explosion. Not because my editor is being cruel. Not because the feedback is wrong. But because RSD interprets any critique of work I care about as a critique of me and, my right to call myself a writer at all.

When the editor writes: "Consider cutting chapter three."

My brain will hear "You’re a fraud and everyone will find out. And I wish I’d never agreed to publish your book."

Completely proportionate. Totally rational. This is fine.

The Specific Flavours of RSD That Editing Will Serve Up

Let me walk you through the menu, because there are several courses:

The Instant Gut Punch - Reading the first critical note and feeling a wave of anxiety that makes you run for the loo.

The Spiral - One note leads to questioning that scene, which leads to questioning that chapter, which leads to questioning the whole book, which leads to wondering if you should just tell them to delete the manuscript and walk away.

The Overcorrection Urge - The desperate impulse to fix everything immediately and agree with every single note just to make the uncomfortable feeling stop, even if some of those notes genuinely don't apply to your vision.

The Delayed Detonation - You read the feedback, feel fine, have a biscuit, start to respond and then, approximately forty-five minutes later, find yourself rocking in a dark corner starng at nothing. Classic.

The Internal Critic Takeover - The editor's voice gets absorbed into your own inner monologue and suddenly you're the one saying horrible things about your work, at volume, on a loop.

Does this mean editing is bad? Absolutely not. Does this mean I'm dreading it? A little bit, yes. Does this mean I'm doing it anyway? Absolutely.

How I'm getting ready.

Here's what I'm actually doing to prepare - in case any of this is useful to you too.

1. Name the beast before it arrives.

I'm doing it right now, in this blog post. Telling people, telling you, that this is a thing I experience means I'm not pretending it won't happen. Naming RSD removes some of its power. It's the difference between "I am broken and can’t handle feedback" and "I have a neurological response to perceived rejection, and I know how to manage it." One of those sentences is a spiral. The other is a plan.

2. Agree on communication expectations with my editor in advance.

This is a big one. Letting your editor know upfront that you process feedback better in writing, or that you need a day before responding, or that you'd find it helpful to hear one positive thing before the critique begins, these aren’t diva requests. They are professional, self-aware communication. Good editors appreciate it. It means better collaboration.

How do I know this can work? Well, I recently went through a smaller scale editing process of the first three chapters of a Middle Grade novel I’m querying for. I worked with K.T. Carlisle on my query package which involved getting feedback and edits on my query letter, synopsis and first three chapters.

Thankfully, K.T. is a natural at giving feedback to someone with RSD, not that she knew it (and wrongly, not that I communicated the fact as it didn’t occur to me until I thought about this blog post). So, what did she do that you and I can ask for in our editors?

1. She was straight to the point. This may seem the opposite of what would help, but far from it. K.T. was clear about what she liked, what worked and where there were issues. It wasn’t given harshly; simply clearly and in a way that made sense as she always added context.

2. She gave reasons. This is why the ‘straight to the point’ worked so well. K.T. made it clear why changes were needed from plot holes to grammar and punctuation. This meant I understood and could learn from them for my future writing. And constantly learning is something that’s important to me.

3. She used humour. This is a big one for me. K.T. added funny notes about what made her laugh, and comments about her dog’s behaviour (it was relevant to my story, I promise). This was so much better than just saying “this worked well”. Comments like “This painted such a picture” and “My dog does this” let me know that as a reader it was making her think about what I hoped my story would.

4. So thanks K.T.

3. Give feedback a "cooling off" period.

My rule - I am not allowed to respond to edit notes on the same day I receive them. Not a word. Not an email. The notes go in a folder and maybe go for a walk, watch something comforting, and eat something unreasonable. The next day, when the initial RSD wave has passed, I can read the feedback as a writer rather than as someone who has just been emotionally beaten.

4. Separate "my work" from "me."

Easier said than done. Revolutionary, I know. But the practice of reminding myself, out loud, sometimes, to the mild concern of my dog, that a critique of this chapter is not a verdict on my worth as a human being is genuinely useful. The work can be improved. That's the point of editing. That's why editing exists. An editor's notes mean someone cares enough about this book to help it become the best version of itself.

5. Celebrate the milestone, not just the outcome.

Getting to edits is an achievement. Full stop. Whatever the notes say, whatever gets changed or cut or rearranged, I wrote a novel. Autumn me is going to need Spring me's enthusiasm on retainer, so I'm banking it now.

A note to anyone else in the RSD Club

If you're a writer with RSD, autistic, ADHD, both, or otherwise, and you're looking at the editing process with a mixture of longing and low-level dread: you're not alone and you're not too sensitive.

The intensity that makes feedback feel enormous is the same intensity that made you care enough to finish the book.

We feel things deeply. That's not a bug. It's woven into why we create.

We just need better seatbelts than the average person. That's all.

The edits are coming this autumn. My RSD is already warming up in the wings, stretching its little legs, preparing its greatest hits. But so am I.

Watch this space.

If you have experience with RSD and creative work, I'd love to hear from you in the comments - what's helped, what hasn't, and whether your furry friend or houseplants have also developed an impressive tolerance for one-sided pep talks.