my fingers tap-dancing across the keyboard

I have been writing a lot lately. It feels so good, so right and natural. But at once it is frustrating, and I spend much of my day pensive and gazing into space; into my imagined reality.
During the day when I am busy at work, i crave writing, but by the time i get home, cook dinner, play with the kids, get them off to bed, eat, tidy up... where does the time go? And all my energy and inspiration is sapped.
How do women do this?

I feel so sad for Sylvia Plath. her poor poor children.