I'm sitting here picking at the keyboard, very much resembling one of my chickens after I've thrown a scattering of rice down in the grass for them. Duck, sight, weave, bob, PECK! Begin again. Why am I typing like this? Because my right wrist is currently wrapped in a rigid brace that I've been promised will abate the nerve twanging pain that keeps shooting through my thumb and first two fingers. I have my doubts about this, but I will keep wearing the brace. And in the meantime, I will doggedly continue to peck out words like a drunk chicken looking for white rice in a snow storm because, well, it's all I can do.
Writing is like that. You do what you can, when you can. And no matter how long it takes you, or how frustratingly difficult it is, you keep doing it because, well, that's what makes you happy.