How the Love of my Life Killed my Muse...

I've been a writer for as long as I can remember, I was always reading, coming up with alternate plot lines to my favorite books or taking an idea and creating a whole new story out of it. Even when I finally found myself with one significant other or another, I still was unsatisfied with my life enough that I had plenty of fodder for stories, alternate ways my life could have turned out, the search for true love and other such teenagery angst-ridden plotlines. For the last year, however, my once seemingly endless wealth of ideas has ended, had its head suddenly chopped off at the guillotine.
I blame true love. For the last year, other than the minor stressors of/at work and school, I couldn’t wish anything better in my life. I am loved, romanced, and included in his life and as much as I adore him and he is exactly everything I never knew how to ask for…..he hath murdered my Muse. The most I’ve been able to write is a few lines of poetry or prose here and there, and not even an entire piece at that.
As much as I dread it, I may have to revert to digging out all those old writing journals from my youth and seeing how much of it is salvageable into new material. I still find pieces here and there that make me react as they did when I first wrote them, as I would wish a reader to, but are they good enough to chop apart and use again or will they end up in the trashbin (heaven forbid I acutally contemplate it) once and for all?