Distracting Myself

There's something very relaxing about making my bed.  When I wash my sheets, like I did today, I am given the opportunity to be distracted from everything else that is happening in my life and focus on the art of bed-making. Many other activities can put me in this state of focus and self-distraction.  These include but are not limited to:

Doing laundry

Cleaning my room

Washing dishes

Cleaning the kitchen

Organizing my bookshelf

Cleaning my bathroom

Folding laundry

Cleaning my desk

It's clear that I mainly clean when I'm stressed, worried, or confused.  For some reason, the act of putting everything in it's right place can help control my heartbeat.  Could it be that I'm cleaning my surroundings as a sub-conscious attempt at getting my own life in order? Am I like PSH in Synecdoche, scrubbing at everything to avoid being covered in the grime and grit of growing old?

When I'm lying in bed, and my thoughts race out of control, I have a particular method to help calm me down so I can sleep.  Some people count sheep.  I imagine an empty bookshelf.  The books that were once on it's shelves are now littering the floor.  One by one, I place the books back on the shelf.  I restore order to the disordered.  And soon, my breathing slows down, and I fall asleep.

Soon enough, however, I realize that the cleaning must either stop (leaving me with only truth) or never end (completely ignoring truth).  Why do I replace all of the books at night if I'm only going to pull them off the shelf again in the morning?  Is this a process that must be repeated in order to stay sane?  Must everything always be a process?

One more question: Can a life find order?