I still catch myself feeling like I have to earn rest, even though I know, bone-deep, that I am inherently worthy of it. The guilt of stillness... it clings like cosmic dust. Even knowing the planets themselves pause in their orbits, I feel the pull to justify existing in quiet. The hum of the refrigerator feels louder when I'm not "doing." There's a silent, ancestral fear that if I'm not actively contributing, I'll be cast out, even though I'm safe, fed, and loved beyond measure. It's a phantom limb of a work ethic, twitching even when the body is still.