Agitation creeps up in my hands and I look at my knuckles as they type on auto pilot. Another weekend gone, another day chained to a desk, with eyes on my back. Every moment I look at my screen blankly is a moment filled with self-doubt, self-consciousness. Perhaps even a tinge of self-importance as I tell myself that I ought to be more valuable than I feel I am. 

Sending off another email, I realise that this feeling is all too familiar - a burning earning to be productive yet smothered under the weight of meaninglessness. "I'm not depressed," is what I think to myself.

Then I wonder if I am bipolar, for this feeling seems to remind me of a similar one from weeks ago.

We snatch at labels because they validate our need to feel that it's okay to not feel okay.