Part of the difficulty of being human is the instinct to carry it all with us. Not material things, although maybe that's a source of comfort for some of us, but mental things--memories, worries, regrets, wishes, plans, strategies, complaints, pain, and joy. For some reason, we feel the need to catalog everything--good, bad, neutral, want, don't want, heavy, light. No wonder we have little time for anything else. No wonder we're so frantic, so anxious, so hurried, always, always.
It's like we're afraid we'll forget who we are without the crust of what it is to be human. Who are we without our worries? Without our past? Without our excuses, our plans, our 'if only's'? It's not unlike injuring yourself and having to wear a cast--at first, it's a hassle, but then, once healed, we're afraid to lose the safety of that structure, afraid to use the limb, not necessarily fearing future injury, but fearing the lack of support, the work it will take (the time it will take) to rehabilitate.
And maybe, just maybe, we miss the attention. We miss the excuse we had *not* to try, *not* to show up, *not* to think about x or y for a set period of time.
But here's the secret--you don't need the excuse of injury to get that time off. You don't need to be hampered by the external before you let go of that need to carry and carry and show up and worry and talk and plan. You can rest--anytime you wish. You need no excuse but the need to stop.