This thing called love...I mean space

This weekend I had a fight with my husband. Not a new fight. This is a fight we have had maybe four times now and it always begins and ends the same way. It goes something like this:

Husband: "I'm sorry that I'm a jerk. I don't know why I do some of the things I do. If you want me to leave, I will."
Me: "Yes, I want you to leave. I need space."

So he gathers up a few items and moves into his music studio for...a night. It is never any longer than this, just one night. And he never takes anything with him that he can't live without except his toothbrush and clean underware. He does take items that have found their way into the house that really belong in the studio anyway--new CD burner, memorabilia from tours across the country and Europe, microphones (or anything else that was brought home from the last gig.)
We have an attic bedroom that became a music/tv room when we moved in to our house because he has so much stereo equipment that it needed its own space. This room eventually became my husband's space so I guess he thought he could fill it with more stuff.
When he sleeps in his studio, he sleeps on the fold down seat he takes out of his van. I'm sure this doesn't bother him at all considering he has usually spent from 4pm until close at the local pub. It doesn't bother me either because the dogs and I get the bed to ourselves and none of us snore. I can also get a substantial amount of reading or writing done without being bothered.

Back to the fight.

He shows up the next morning at home and we have coffee and make small talk until we say how much we missed each other and then a discussion begins about the actual cause of the fight.
This time we talked all day. We decided to talk while we shopped. Actually, I was going shopping and he is smart enough to know that if he wants permission to move back in, he should probably shop too (read sucking up).
I was looking for a couch and shadow box for our recently created tv/stereo room (aka Elvis' room). I found the shadow box and a set of aqua and gold highball glasses but no couch. I made the purchases while he stood by and said whatever you want dear.
There is a reason we are redoing a room for his stereo equipment and our life size cardboard Elvis. It is so that I can have my own space. The attic bedroom is offically mine now, sort of. It will house two twin beds for company and for a daughter still in college who randomly graces us with her presence when she needs laundry done. But still, it is my space. And I need it. Presently, I can't write unless he is gone because he wants to talk. If he is not talking, he is singing. Or playing his guitar.
My husband and I have decided that despite our love and affection for each other, we have a lot of problems.
We married too old. He was in his early 50's and I was in my late 40's. We have only been married for 18 months.
We were by ourselves for a multitude of years before marrying and not only are we use to having our own space, we need our own space.
We are both creative people. He is a singer/songwriter and I am a fiction writer. Neither one of us understands the other's process. We don't understand each other's motive or drive. What we do understand is that we can use each other for an excuse not to write and then blame each other for not getting anything done.
He left for work this morning saying that he would take the rest of his stuff to the studio tonight and, that I should start thinking about shopping for whatever I need for my space. My space.
My space won't solve all our problems. But I don't think it will create any new ones either. At least when I say I need my space, I can leave. Unless, of course, the house becomes littered with studio stuff again...