Impostor syndrome redux

I posted this poem a little less than a year ago, but as I seem to battle impostor syndrome every Monday (if not more often), I'm sharing it again. Let's not raise a glass to the monster in our heads.

Original post here. The below version is slightly revised.

“As a writer,” I try to say.
As such a ridiculous impostor,
my monster hisses.

“I want to keep writing. That’s all.”
Don't equivocate. You want much more.

“I want to be read. I want to read poems.”
Except for the years when you hid
from poetry and from writing
and tried to believe it was because of your children.

“Yes, I used to think I would write between diapers,
as Katherine Paterson once said—”
And you could have, and you should have,
and sometimes you did, but mostly you didn’t.
Coward.

“As a writer—” I stop to brace my shaking voice.
“As a poet—” Yeah, right. It’s so cute that you think that.
“As a woman—” Playing that card, are we?
“As a wife—” Oh boy. You really want to claim that title?
“As a mother—” Yes, yes, you have kids. Big whoop.
“As an image-bearer—” Ooohhh, go with that. 
We all know that Christians are more despised than ever
and carry the stench of people who just don’t care—
“—AS A PERSON WHO JUST WANTS TO WRITE
just let me, please. Just let me write.”