In the last few weeks I have cut down greatly on cardiovascular exercise (even down from exam season), which has resulted in extra time, a burst of creative energy, and the occasional panic attack.  There is definite irony in stubbornly trying to not do something that is good for you (exercise), or stubbornly making yourself do something not necessarily good for you, such as eating a Toni's bacon mushroom swiss burger for breakfast, yet I insist that careless versatility has greater virtue than a bulldozer of asceticism.  The entire point of not exercising, in addition to being rested and having time, is that I loathe that I have to do it.  I have really enjoyed being able to sleep in and relax for entire days; it is even nicer now after unlearning and relearning it, than when I did it all the time as a kid and didn't care. 
But then sometimes my defenses are lowered for some other reason, too little sleep, too much tedious work, sore muscles, and I become a horrible werewolf and have to go into the woods and listen to metal music.  I do horrible things like call JT fifteen times and tell him we are/aren't/are/aren't going to do something awesome, I text someone who I am almost sure is satan, I eat entire chocolate bars, I cry about how I am going to be worthless and alone for all my life.  There is a deeply entrenched part of me that is sure that if I don't go to yoga or the gym I'll be fat and therefore worthless.  It's shallow and I know it's shallow but it definitely happening to me as a horrible, all encompassing feeling.  That I have horrible stretches of panic when I am fighting it makes me more resolved to believe it is a good fight.