There are too many things to do.
The too many things to do are all individually meaningless.
I don’t know what the things to do are.
Other people who do know don’t care; but they want me to care with better doublethink than they need to show.
I want to do all these things better than anyone else.
I don’t want to do any of them.
I have things of my own I want to do.
I don’t know what those things are.
I don’t want to do those things either.
The things I have to do are preventing me from doing the things I want to do, or even knowing what those things are.
I care about (some) students and (some) colleagues and want them to care about me.
I can’t muster the energy to do anything about it.
This is mostly written by Z, in response to a request for a new analysis of my current malaise. It seems to be working. As is a gift from the same source: The Lost Tales of H.H. Munro, finally available in book form. Ya gotta laugh.