babies undergo amputation

This morning I have been reducing 3 of my short stories down from around 3000 words to the regulation length of 2500 required by the stipulations of the Rhys Davies short story prize committee. Technically it proved to be easier than I thought, but the process was painful at an emotional level. Truncating the stories was like slashing at my own babies, my darling children I spent so much energy creating. Why should I be doing this? I thought. They're perfect as they are; they've received the approval of an acclaimed writer following his skilled editing. Yet I have had to removeup to 15% of their content; removing paragraphs which hitherto I had regarded as essential. There can't be a lot of padding in a story of no more than 8 pages- have I amputated the right bits, rendering the stories even better than they were before, or have I mutilated them beyond any hope of winning?

I know I probably won't win: I'm not stupid. They may not suit the zeitgeist of the judging panel, or someone may submit a stunner, eclipsing my own not inconsiderable efforts. And it is my first attempt. So I'll have to be realistic, and, like the owner of a lottery ticket, remain more in hope than expectation. But then, like the lottery, someone has to win and it just might be me.