Last night, well after midnight, I finally got too sleepy to work any more. I checked my email accounts (six) one more time, and of course, there were tons of new messages waiting for me. About half of them would require some response, and probably a third of them included some new item for my growing to-do list.
I'll catch up tomorrow, I said to myself.
"I'll catch up tomorrow," she said hopefully, though she had her doubts. The others were not fooled. They knew all too well that more email would arrive overnight, overflowing the inboxes and flooding the servers and making her escape impossible, though she was armed with current passwords and the strongest spam protection on the market. Her only chance of keeping her head above water would be to labor through the night, dispatching one message at a time, but everyone could see that she was fighting sleep after weeks of intense research and writing. She was suffering, too, from a severe singing deficit, which left her depressed and irritable.
Catch up? Impossible. No one ever “caught up.” It was a fantasy, and a dangerous one at that.