the moment in Margaret Thatcher's life which bequeathed her most terror and the running away from which terror shaped an entire political geist

In the back of her head, she constantly kept reminding herself: I need to be busy. I need to be busy.
In the office, the refrain was even louder. It became accusative: You need to be busy. You need to be busy.
She was a model of efficiency. Every email was logged, every report read and commented upon, notes made from meetings, she was an office paragon.
Yet still the voice kept chipping away at her. Every moment of down time, it chirruped away.
One day, she'd got everything under control as usual. The voice crept in as ususal. She looked around. She tried to think of something to do. The anxiety of not knowing how to assuage the Busy god was breaking her into pieces.
She sat back at her desk. Looked around. Realised there was nothing for her to do.
There was no busy for her to be.
She felt like she was in earthquake.
The ground shuddered and a great split in the shape of the world was rendered.
The whole thing had been no more than an artful construction.
The Busy god was just an opiate, like all the rest.
She wasn't busy; there was no reason why she should be; there was no reason she should ever seek to attain that state of mind again.