Writer's block

Why is it so damned difficult to sit down and write something? After three minutes of staring at a blank page I'm up tending to laundry, dusting, vacuuming or something else, anything else, that will take me away from the computer. What the hell? Yesterday I spent an hour farting around with the cultivator motor trying to figure out how in hell to get to the pull cord without a torx driver. I freshened the bedding in the chicken house. I hung the laundry out on the line. I brought the wool runner in and vacuumed the hell out of it. I made jello. I even tackled the humongous pile of newspaper clippings, magazines, and whatnot on the kitchen table. Anything to keep from writing.
So, why do I even bother? Because the story is there. The characters are real and they're getting older by the day. I can't help but cast a critical eye on the work though. It's hard. You'd think my house would be spotless. It's not. It's as jumbled and cluttered as my brain. My teacup is empty. Again. Just stepped away to let Smudge out and had to reassure Grendal that he was the prettiest cat. Tea is ready. Another five minutes gone. I need to make a good outline with the major points of the story highlighted. Then I have to figure out how to string the action together. Like beads. Big beads for big action. Smaller beads to bridge. Seed beads for the boring spacer bits. A nice silver clasp for the end. And hope that my story doesn't become a really ugly necklace.