Never save attachment. Any love you hold for your words is incidental at best, and fatal at worst. It distracts from your primary purpose: instilling feeling in the cavities of others. Like a surgeon, cut away at the flab and scar tissue that tethers itself to your prose; your job, after all, is not to anaesthetise the reader but to electrify their synaptic connections. Neurons that fire together, wire together. The more you cut, the more you can cut.
Go for the easy targets first. Adjectives often add unnecessary ballast, so jettison them. Adverbs should be treated like benign cancers: seemingly harmless, but why would you take the chance? Avoid alliteration. Go for the harder targets not first. Superfluous sentences will feel too heavy, or not enough. When hunting paragraphs, know that the weakest targets are the ones whose absence would go unnoticed in the pack. Spare them no mercy in their febrility, for your readers will afford you none. There is only one question: Is this really necessary?
Violence, even to your own creations, can become an addiction. I was trained to cut, and cut hard, but I one day found myself burning fertile exposition along with its descriptors. It’s often advisable not to hunt alone. My reader is critical, but generously so: she helps rein in my destructive excesses without dulling them, not because she constrains her praise (quite the opposite, sometimes), but because excesses remains an instinctual understatement. Balancing self-pride with self-loathing is akin to placing a soul and feather on a set of golden scales: you’ll have to keep making adjustments if you want the exercise to work. You’re only done when your prose is as sharp a blade as you are, which is never.