I love this paragraph from Letter 66 as Jane responds to Cassandra's assertion that Fanny enjoys her writing:

I am gratified by her having pleasure in what I write, but I wish the knowledge of my being exposed to her discerning criticism may not hurt my style, by inducing too great a solicitude. I begin already to weigh my words and sentences more than I did, and am looking about for a sentiment, an illustration, or a metaphor in every corner of the room. Could my ideas flow as fast as the rain in the store-closet it would be charming.

What writer doesn't know this feeling? Someone you admire is reading and liking your work and suddenly you're trying perhaps too hard to continue to meet their expectations.