If you live in America in the twenty-first century, you’ve almost certainly had to listen to countless people talk about how busy they are. It’s become the automatic answer when you ask anyone how things are going: “Busy!” “So busy.” “Crazy busy.” It’s pretty clearly a brag disguised as a complaint. And the standard reply is a kind of praise: “That’s a good problem to have,” or “Hey, better than the alternative.” Notice that it’s rarely the people working double shifts in the I.C.U. or riding the bus to three different minimum-wage jobs who go on about how busy they are; what those people are isn’t busy but worn out. Drained. Running on fumes. The ones who bemoan their busyness are almost always people whose overloaded schedules are largely self-created: work and commitments they’ve chosen, lessons and activities they’ve “encouraged” their kids to join. They’re overscheduled because of their own ambition, restlessness, or anxiety, because they’re hooked on being busy and afraid of what they might have to confront if things got quiet. Nearly everyone I know is busy. They feel uneasy and guilty whenever they’re not working or doing something that somehow advances their work. They pencil in time with friends the way straight-A students make sure to log community-service hours because it looks impressive on college applications. I recently emailed a friend to see if he wanted to get together this week, and he replied that he didn’t have much time but that if something was happening I should let him know…