This is a real thing, a condition recognised by psychiatrists as relaxation-induced anxiety. Eventually, I go upstairs to lie silently on my bed, having a small panic attack. I start half-watching a documentary about veganism on Netflix, while idly scrolling Twitter on my phone and, with my other hand, inexplicably researching the 1980s band DeBarge on Wikipedia on my laptop. When my wife and kids are out of the house, and I have no pressing work deadlines, I become anxious: the nagging thought that I really should be doing something productive but can’t think what, the pressure to absorb myself in something genuinely relaxing. It sounds nice in theory, but by midday on 28 December, usually while watching Mrs Doubtfire on Channel 5, I tend to slip into an existential crisis. I am supposed to just relax and do nothing. I have always found the late December void we are currently enduring to be discombobulating and stressful.
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