Real reason for the logjam of words

So, as the last post, the poem about the mental patio forming up, indicates, I'm suffering my weird writer's block, not so much that the story won't go, but another intrudes, and demands to be at least addressed enough to call some story inspector in to check the foundations before I let the character start framing the damned house the story will live in.

Yeah, my dealing with contractors at work is affecting my view of writing again. Metaphorically, at least.

So, this morning, I opened up my writing softwares, and what dropped into one tale had nothing to do with the tale that file/folder contained. I had to go back, save it the hell out, look around my hard drive and find a niche to cram those words into, as a holding place. Regrettably, that actually sparked more ideas and words from the main character, as the place in my head crowded up with others waiting their turns, or at least acting like they are waiting, to tell a tale.

What, you may ask, sparked this? Who the hell knows. I live inside my skull, and am just as mystified as to what goes on in here as others outside it are.

This is the words that flowed out, and that third paragraph sort of sealed the deal, that it was time to talk of "Grave to Grave" registration of undead bodies, how Bureau-rats (were-rats who have infiltrated the bureaucracy of CRAPP's parent organization) will guide or impede the characters, and some other things.

Upstairs, amid the cubicles, the offices, the suits, and the things in suits that need a good staking, they have a term which strikes horror in the hearts of many entrepenuers and riders of golden parachutes. "Cradle to Grave". It means how one follows the trail of chemicals and various by-products from their creation to their internment inside containers which are designed from step one to leak, deep inside some hidden place. Say Utah, Nevada, or over a major watersupply, say the Ogallala Aquifer. 
Down here in the basement, we have our own twist on that string of words. "Grave to Grave". And we hate enforcing it, as it means we have to deal with some form of undead bastard who cannot stay put once planted in the ground. 
There's a new, rubber placard on my desk, but it lies as much as its wooden and metal predecessors had, claiming my name is Troy Tanner, that my job title is "Remediation & Recovery Expert", and that I am handicapped. I'm pretty sure Blair and Beths teamed up on this one, as my only handicap is I cannot play golf or office politics, and the rubber tells me Beths is hoping this one will bounce back on its own from whatever dumpster I drop it into. Tanner is the name I answer to, unless the IRS is asking, so it will do. As for that title, face it, anyone who gets sent out to clean up a mess, be it made by the living, the dead, the undead, aliens, sasquatch who have decided that using someone's lawn over their woods to dump in, or other such things is just a glorified janitor. 

Yep, another of those days, when it comes to me writing. One where the characters do their damnedest to make me insane, by blocking each other like a goalie seeking to save the day.