I'm Down

I feel as though I'm constantly working but have little to show for it. I used to play rock music; I used to get articles published and write mediocre works of fiction; I used to do a radio show; I used to ride my bike through the green hills of middle Tennessee. I'd like to think that my neglect of such projects is due to an effort to give myself more fully to my household and my work, but I don't know that it is. I have partially set aside my obsessive-compulsive commitment to keeping a clean house and even find myself saying, "No, Meyer. We can't go out and swing right now." I've been lazy about keeping fresh litter in the cat boxes and still haven't sealed the deck. Not that either is terribly important, but in recent months I've failed to meet my reading and exercise goals as well.

I'm not sure what I do, but I'm always busy, and I'm usually tired andor anxious. I also don't understand why I put so much pressure on myself to be productive or why I define productivity the way I do. Given that my wife is nine-months pregnant, I feel guilty for complaining about any of this; but I'm worn out, and I need to vent.