The first time something happens, we’re very good at convincing ourselves

A while ago I was often working late. Sometimes it would be three or four in the morning; my body was clearly exhausted, but my mind kept turning over how a feature should work. Lying down didn’t help. The problem was still hanging there, and the day felt like it hadn’t properly ended.

Every time, I had a reasonable excuse—“it’s almost done, just tying up the loose ends,” “I’ll sleep better once this is solved,” “it’s only one last little thing.” On their own, none of these sounded unreasonable.

Then a few days ago my body started feeling sore and tense, and I suddenly realized I hadn’t taken a serious look at my routine in a long time.

So I went back through some earlier notes, and that’s when I noticed something I’d never been aware of: the times I found it hardest to stop seemed to keep company with anxiety.

At first I assumed I was just busy. The more I thought about it, the less that held. Plenty of it wasn’t urgent enough to need solving at four in the morning; looked at the next day, finishing a few hours earlier the night before would have changed almost nothing.

And still, once night came, I found it very hard to stop.

What I couldn’t stand, I gradually realized, was the state of things being unresolved. A feature unfinished, a question unanswered, something left hanging—I wanted it closed off as fast as possible, as if solving it tonight would take the hovering feeling away too. So sometimes it wasn’t the work pushing me to keep working; it was the mood, and I didn’t notice at the time.

If it had happened once, I wouldn’t have thought much of it. Working until four: an occasional deadline push. Anxiety: something on my mind that day. Exhaustion: nothing unusual. Each on its own had a perfectly good explanation. What bothered me was seeing them together.

And this wasn’t the first time. The scattered notes hadn’t seemed related, but when the same state showed up again, I recognized it at once: I’d been here before.

That’s part of why I’ve been rethinking what keeping a record is for.

I used to think it was mainly so I’d remember later—where I’d been, what I’d done, how I’d felt. But more and more I think most records don’t mean much at the moment they’re written. Anxious today: doesn’t prove anything. Up late last night: doesn’t prove anything. Suddenly exhausted one afternoon: might really just be a bad night’s sleep. No need to analyze it right away; leave it there first.

What does the work is usually not any single entry. It’s noticing, some time later, that the same thing has come back. Only then do you get to confirm it: ah, so it wasn’t an accident.