The pressure of being productive.

This morning, when I was sitting in bed drinking my bulletproof coffee, I felt an unpleasant urge to move.

There was an ominous pressure to start something, to work on something.

To fucking DO something!

As if I’m personally stopping the entire universe from universing, and now I’ve got to get back in the game before everything explodes.

So it feels something like:

You’re wasting your time, and your life, you irresponsible, lazy idiot!

Now work!

Call!

Write!

Hustle!

Make a mark!

Do something with your life!

All really compelling, and uncomfortable.

And somewhat motivating.

Sort of.

And then it struck me:

How many times have I been here before?

And how many of these times do I still remember?

The answer to the first question would be something like, let’s say, tens of thousands.

And the answer to the second is probably zero.