Speaking of emptiness Hemingway wrote (I searched and didn't find a reference anywhere on the net, so it could be one of those Internet hoaxes) he felt empty after writing, neither happy, nor sad, like after having sex. That's Hemingway speaking, not me. At least, a fake Hemingway, for all I know. You can't do it all the time, so you have to save yourself, marshal the facts, develop the ideas, gather, gather, gather, before you sit down to pen a few words each day.
I think that's what I would do. Lay my pen down a bit. Or, give my fingers a bit of rest that it has been craving. Sometimes, I get these cramps in the fingers, I had shoulder pain also, before I started playing badminton, that is. Now that is gone. The sport invented in India which has the shuttle whizzing around the ground keeps me fit. It's a good sport and my sporting companion is my friend Henry and a young chap named Rainier (nice name that) who lives near where we play.