I Can't Stop Working or I Start to Self-Destruct. Here's Why.

When productivity is the only thing keeping you from falling apart—and how to turn that drive into something that actually matters.

I was unemployed for months after getting wrongfully terminated from Fidelity Investments. Lost my ability to use my financial licenses. Lost my income. Lost the entire identity I’d built as a top financial advisor for over a decade.

And the worst part wasn’t the money. It was what happened to my body when I tried to sit still.

Every single day, I’d sit down at my desk to apply for jobs. Within minutes, I’d feel it starting. This crawling sensation in my entire body. My legs especially. Like I physically couldn’t stay in that chair. Couldn’t focus. Couldn’t even look at the screen.

I’d have to get up. Leave the desk. Walk away from the computer. The overwhelm was so intense I couldn’t function.

The only time that feeling stopped was when I was working on my stand-up material. Writing jokes. Structuring sets. Building something that felt like it mattered beyond just surviving.

That’s when I realized something: I wasn’t struggling with unemployment. I was struggling with the absence of productivity. And that absence felt like dying.

The Math That Doesn’t Add Up

I’ve always tied my value to what I produce.

If I’m working, I matter. If I’m creating something, I’m worth keeping around. If I’m building toward a goal, I have a reason to exist.

If I’m not? I’m wasting my life.

Not wasting time. Wasting life itself.

I work weekends. I work evenings. If I can’t sleep at night, I get up and work on something. My day job. Kill the Silence. Writing. Something. Anything that proves I’m still functional.

Because somewhere deep in my wiring, I learned that my value is conditional. That love and safety and belonging are things you earn through performance. And if you stop performing, you get discarded.

I know that’s not healthy. I know that’s trauma talking. But knowing where it comes from doesn’t make it stop.

Why Stand-Up Hits Different

Here’s what I figured out during those months: not all productivity is the same.

Applying for jobs felt like drowning because I was doing it to survive. To replace what I lost. To prove I could still function in the system that had just spit me out.

That’s productive panic. That’s running.

But working on stand-up? That was different. That was creation.

I have a real goal with comedy. I want to do this at a level that actually matters. I have material. I know I’m good at it. I just haven’t felt good enough to get back on stage in over a year.

And it weighs on me every single day that I’m not doing the thing I know I’m supposed to be doing.

But even working on the material feels productive in a way that survival tasks never did. Because I’m building something that could outlast me.

You can always make money. I never had it growing up, so I’ve always wanted a lot of it. I’ve approached money in the most unhealthy ways my entire life. But at the end of the day, you can’t take any of it with you.

What you can leave is something that moves people. Something that makes them think or feel something that wakes them up to actually live their lives instead of just surviving them.

I know what it’s like to be buried underneath shame and guilt and feel like you’re worthless. And if I can create something that helps someone else not drown in that? That’s the only productivity that actually matters.

The Real Question

So here’s what I’m wrestling with: Is this drive destroying me or is it the only thing keeping me alive?

When I’m working on something that matters, I get in the zone. I’m locked in. Completely focused. That’s when I feel like myself. That’s when I feel like I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.

But I can’t shut my brain off. Ever.

Even when I rest, I’m thinking about what I should be working on. What I could be building. What I’m not accomplishing.

And I don’t know if that’s ambition or if that’s just another symptom of never feeling safe enough to stop.

After losing everything twice, productivity became proof. Proof I wasn’t broken. Proof the firing was wrong. Proof I was still valuable. Proof that what happened to me doesn’t get to define what I’m capable of.

But here’s the thing I’m starting to understand: there’s a difference between producing to prove you’re not broken and creating because you have something to say.

One is running. One is building.

And I think the question isn’t “how do I stop working so much.” The question is “am I working on the right things for the right reasons?”

What I’m Actually Trying to Prove

I need to prove something to myself. Not to anyone else. To myself.

I need to prove that the goals I had before everything fell apart are still possible. That I didn’t lose two years of my life for nothing. That the trauma and the abuse and the career implosion were detours, not destinations.

I need to prove that I can create something that lasts longer than the pain.

And maybe that’s the healthiest thing I could be doing with this drive. Because if I’m going to be wired this way, if I’m going to feel like I’m dying when I’m not producing, then at least I can channel that energy into something that actually matters.

Not just surviving. Creating.

Not just rebuilding what I lost. Building something better.

Not just proving I’m not broken. Proving that broken things can make something beautiful.

The Framework That’s Actually Helping

Here’s what I’m learning to ask myself when the crawling sensation starts:

Am I producing to survive or creating to build something that lasts?

Am I working because I’m running from something or because I’m moving toward something?

Is this project feeding my trauma or feeding my purpose?

If the answer is survival, I stop. Because survival productivity is just high-functioning panic. It’s camouflage. It’s white-knuckling through existence while calling it ambition.

But if the answer is creation? If I’m building something that could help someone else not drown the way I almost did? Then I work. Hard. Without apology.

Because that’s not trauma. That’s mission.

What This Means for You

If you’re reading this and recognizing yourself, here’s what I want you to understand:

That drive you have? That inability to sit still? That constant need to be productive or you’ll self-destruct?

That’s not laziness you’re avoiding. That’s not procrastination you’re compensating for. That’s a nervous system that learned your worth was conditional and productivity was the price of belonging.

And you have two choices.

You can keep running on that hamster wheel, producing for the sake of proving you’re valuable, burning yourself out trying to earn something you were born deserving.

Or you can take that same energy and redirect it. Channel it into something that actually matters. Something that lasts. Something that helps other people stop drowning.

The drive doesn’t have to go away. You just have to aim it at the right target.

Stop working to prove you’re not broken. Start creating to prove that broken things build the most powerful shit.

The Uncomfortable Truth

I don’t have this figured out yet. I’m still working 60-hour weeks. I’m still waking up at 3am to write. I’m still struggling to rest without feeling like I’m wasting my life.

But I’m learning the difference between running and building. Between producing to survive and creating to matter.

And maybe that’s enough. Maybe the goal isn’t to stop being productive. Maybe it’s to make sure the productivity is pointed at something worth building.

I’m working on Kill the Silence. I’m working on getting back on stage. I’m working on creating tools for people who are drowning the way I almost did.

Is that trauma? Probably.

Is it also purpose? Yeah. I think so.

And I’m okay with that.

Because if I’m going to feel like I’m dying when I’m not working, I might as well work on something that helps other people live.

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So ask yourself:

What are you building? And is it worth the energy you’re burning?

Are you producing to survive or creating to matter?

Are you running from what broke you or building something because of it?

The drive doesn’t go away. But you get to decide where it goes.

Make it count.

—Cody Taymore

Kill The Silence

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