For most of my working life, I’ve felt way too busy. Sometimes heart-stoppingly, wildly so — working long hours, missing out on family time or fun, and stressed beyond belief. And yet, a few years ago, as I was cleaning out my file cabinet before leaving the Washington Post after nearly 20 years, I found folder after folder of half-reported stories that would have been good. Really good. If only I hadn’t been too busy to actually work on them.
