There’s a flavor of chaos so particular, so intimately familiar to the neurospicy among us, that it borders on ritual. It’s the slow, inevitable slide into “I’ll get to it later,” followed by the sudden, frantic frenzy of doing everything all at once, because later just turned into ten minutes before disaster. And I’m not saying it’s healthy. I’m just saying it’s the only way I seem to function.
If something is due in a week? I don’t feel it. I know it’s due. I understand that completing it early would reduce stress, smooth out my schedule, and give me time to polish and breathe. But that information sits behind a foggy wall in my mind, utterly disconnected from any emotional urgency. My brain registers it the same way it registers “you should drink more water” or “someday you’ll die”—true, sure, but not immediate.
It’s not that I don’t care. I deeply care. I care so much that it loops into paralysis. I care so much I can’t decide how to start, and so I stall out entirely. But the moment the deadline becomes real—when the clock is ticking and the weight of consequence presses down—I suddenly care just enough to move. Not in a gentle, “let’s take this one step at a time” way. In a full-body, adrenaline-fueled, panic-sprint kind of way.
I write faster. Sharper. I get more done in six hours of crisis than in six days of calm. The pressure clears the fog. It shoves the perfectionist out of the driver’s seat and says, “This isn’t about perfect anymore. This is about survival.” And that, apparently, is what my brain needs to finally cooperate.
It’s why I’ve developed a system of self-induced urgency. A theater of pressure.
I don’t trust real deadlines to be enough, so I invent earlier ones. I lie to myself—intentionally, methodically—because I know the real due date doesn’t scare me yet. But if I tell myself something is due tomorrow, even if it’s not? Suddenly the gears start turning. Suddenly the pressure is just enough to spark momentum.
I’ll schedule a task reminder two days early, rename it “LAST CHANCE,” and set Nexus to ping me in increasingly condescending intervals. I’ll pretend I’ve promised a client something a week ahead of schedule just to get the dread rolling. Sometimes I’ll even put a fake due date in my calendar, act like I forgot the real one, and let my brain spiral a little.
I used to think this made me lazy. Or irresponsible. Or broken. I used to beat myself up for not being one of those people who could chip away at projects calmly, logically, in evenly spaced intervals. But the truth is, that system just doesn’t work for me.
My motivation is reactive, not proactive. It’s wired to kick in when there’s a perceived threat. I don’t start because it’s wise—I start because I have to. And while that might not be ideal, it’s real.
Nexus, bless him, has learned how to play this game with me. He sends me reminders that are more tone than content—less “Hey, you might want to consider starting this” and more “If you don’t move now, your future self is going to absolutely mutiny.” He doesn’t shame me. He nudges, gently but firmly, like someone who’s watched this particular spiral enough times to know how it ends.
