The Dickinson poem that encapsulates this best for me is 443:
I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl (443)
Emily Dickinson
I tie my Hat—I crease my Shawl—
Life's little duties do—precisely—
As the very least
Were infinite—to me—
I put new Blossoms in the Glass—
And throw the old—away—
I push a petal from my gown
That anchored there—I weigh
The time 'twill be till six o'clock
I have so much to do—
And yet—Existence—some way back—
Stopped—struck—my ticking—through—
We cannot put Ourself away
As a completed Man
Or Woman—When the Errand's done
We came to Flesh—upon—
There may be—Miles on Miles of Nought—
Of Action—sicker far—
To simulate—is stinging work—
To cover what we are
From Science—and from Surgery—
Too Telescopic Eyes
To bear on us unshaded—
For their—sake—not for Ours—
Twould start them—
We—could tremble—
But since we got a Bomb—
And held it in our Bosom—
Nay—Hold it—it is calm—
Therefore—we do life's labor—
Though life's Reward—be done—
With scrupulous exactness—
To hold our Senses—on—
It's such an incredibly apt expression of the voluminous energy required to maintain a game-face, some outer appearance of functionality.
Consider the implication of
I weigh – in line 8. The speaker is heaviness itself.
And the sense of simply going through the motions, so much (nothing) to do, because:
Existence—some way back—
Stopped—struck—my ticking—through—
And ultimately the overriding idea that one will explode if the (stifling) routine is not rigorously followed.
Blows me away this one, truly.
.