Why make something, anything? Why write or paint or sculpt?
For many reasons, but not doing so can lead to terrible regret.
Here’s a line from one of my favorite novels, Wharton’s “The Age of Innocence”, describing Newland Archer, who chose a life of conformity to social mores over the woman he loved and all the unusual experiences he might have had if he’d shared a life with her:
“He preferred to spend the afternoon in solitary roamings through Paris. He had to deal all at once with the packed regrets and stifled memories of an inarticulate lifetime.”