Creativity is a curse insofar as you may obsess about what you write or say, or what you shape or fashion; because the real curse — the crucible too many workers have to bear throughout a lifetime of tedium and infighting — is a brand of conformity so stultifying it crushes imagination, and transforms the mightiest of thinkers into the meekest of supplicants; that worker kneeling like a beggar, without shame or strength, beseeching you for whatever pitiful offering you will deposit in his cup, toss into his hands or shove against his chest. The conformist carries this burden within himself, walking to his cubicle with the resignation that the repetitive nature of his job is nothing more than a biweekly series of rituals, wherein he withdraws his pay and moves about this corporate maze like a rodent in a godless universe — until his masters, those men and women wearing white lab coats, pluck him by his shirttails for another experiment.
The creative has no such problems. He may feel cursed by the compulsion to revise and edit his work, never satisfying himself with whatever iteration of a project a client deems finished. Indeed, nothing is ever complete for the creative; but that is an issue for the creative to resolve or accept by his own accord.
The conformist, in contrast, suffers from the indifference of his friends and coworkers. He has no brush to paint with, no fountain pen to write with, no palette of colors to choose from; because, for him, everything is one depressing shade of gray.
Be grateful for your alleged curse, for it may just save your life.