I'm one who will not delete anything that has meant something to me. Now that I think of it, I had stories and poems I had written during my writing days. And, the interesting part is that years later, when I had no little idea of the writing style or story details, going back and reading them, they looked like they could be someone else's story, published as a book. They were never completed, but I could imagine reading them and getting immersed.
We are our own worst critics, and every time I re-read it, I would alter it, re-script it, and find issues through it, knowing it was mine. When years passed, and it was no longer 'mine', (the me that exists in the present, far separated from the me who wrote them 13+ years ago,) I would not have believed I wrote them, and would have asked for more.
I deleted those as well I believe. They were in the same sets of folders. That makes me even more sad. In no way am I in a good way mentally, but it feels like I am realising that I chose to delete a part of who I am, because I didn't expect to be alive now. There's a loss in that part of me. Melancholy I think fits the feeling.