Made pizza for dinner tonight. Didn't go perfectly.
Inner critic voice: "You over-proofed the dough and didn't know you were out of parm reg, this won't be one to be proud of."
Inner compassionate voice: "It's fuckin' PIZZA. If it's cooked and not covered in cockroaches and feces, it'll be pretty good at worst. Relax, everything is fine."
My family: "There is not a restaurant in this city whose pizza is as good as yours."
Even my good self-talk isn't as kind me as my family is.