After the firing

My first bowl stood somewhere inside the cooling kiln, sealed away with the work of people far more experienced than me. Each time I passed the heavy door, I felt as though the hands of the clock had become stuck. I pictured the blue glaze settling into a smooth, bright surface and imagined placing the finished bowl on my shelf. Just as quickly, I saw a crack running through its centre or the colour emerging dull and uneven. There was nothing I could improve now: the heat had already made every decision permanent. I wanted the door opened immediately, but I was not sure I was ready to see what waited behind it.

In your own words, explain the writer's thoughts and feelings while waiting for the kiln to be opened.