Even as the novel's end comes into sight, I worry and wonder, does it make sense, is the pacing okay, is the writing any good, will anyone want to read this? The culmination of months' of work and worry, and now I worry more. 

I'll finish. I'll print it out, admire the stack of neat paper with my words on it, and set it aside for a few days to cleanse my palate. Then I'll pick it up, pen in hand, and begin reading aloud and walk around. My reading will attract the cats because they think whenever I'm talking, I'm addressing them. Then I'll see how it goes, how it feels.

But I'm getting ahead of myself, pushed on by my worries, anxieties and obsessions. The novel is not quite done. As others have said, I need to just savor it when I finish it and find joy and acceptance in myself, and celebrate my accomplishment, a finished novel.