Where is the question dearest Shakespeare?

I find it fascinating how I could occasionally write so freely . How the words would flow right out my fingertips without the usual frown that accompanied most ideas. It is as if all those times there had been a wall standing tall in the middle of my thoughts and insecurities, hiding one and pushing one into existence. And I swear, when I would close my eyes; I could see that wall. Barely noticeable, yet never diffusing.

 This is one of those times, I feel an electric charge at the tip of my hands as though the words are begging to be let out, to be freed, to see the light of day or more honestly; the light of my barely lit room.

I envied people. For always knowing exactly what to say and what do, in situations where I would most definitely halt . For being ignorant yet maintaining their happiness. How could such atrocities feel joy while I could in fact; not. Why must I be haunted by the same thoughts but at the same time feel as though I was not. What is that feeling called? I have searched relentlessly through books, in the hope of finding a relatable sense. To be and not to be at the same time? To think and not think all at once?

Where is the question dearest Shakespeare? Does it lay with the answer to my troubles? Or would it only trouble the water I barely foresee.