Cabin Fever

Last week I switched my code editor from Sublime Text to Zed.

Not because Zed is better. I've been a Sublime user for years and it still does everything I need. I switched anyway, the same way I once switched from Sublime to VS Code, then months later, switched right back.

The same thing has happened with my todo app. My notes app. My task manager. Todoist to Things, then back. iA Writer to Bear, then back. I keep bouncing between tools that all do the same job.

Each time I switched, it wasn't the tool that changed — it was me.

The daily routine had started to feel like a groove worn too deep. The same app. The same layout. The same muscle memory. I wasn't frustrated with the tool. I was bored of the path I was on, and a new tool was the easiest way to feel like I was walking somewhere different.

We tell ourselves we're optimizing, that the new app has a feature we need. But what we're really doing is buying the feeling of new. That feeling is a reset button for a mind that's gone stale.

Then the shine oxidizes. The groove deepens. The impulse returns.

A few weeks ago I saw a tweet from Adam Wathan. He raved about using Zed as his code editor. My gut reaction, before I rationalized anything, was: hey, I already used Zed in the past, maybe I should give it another shot.

Nothing was wrong with Sublime. I had the right settings. The right keybindings. Everything dialed in.

But I downloaded Zed right there. Didn't even open it that day. I was working on something else, couldn't switch mid-task. But I downloaded it anyway, probably just to commit to the idea. Like buying running shoes at midnight. You're not running tonight. You're just telling yourself you might.

The next day I opened it. It felt like walking into a freshly cleaned hotel room. Everything untouched. Nobody else's settings. Nobody else's mess.

I spent the first hour not coding but configuring. Tweaking settings. Installing themes. Adjusting keybindings. It felt productive. It wasn't. I was procrastinating real work, playing with my new toy.

Sublime to VS Code. VS Code back to Sublime. Sublime to Zed. Zed to Sublime. Sublime to Cursor. Cursor back to Sublime. I've ping-ponged through PhpStorm too. The code editor is the tool I've switched the most.

Each time I had a reason. When I switched to VS Code, it was because Caleb Porzio, a developer I admire, had this buttery setup. He flew through the editor with his keybindings. I bought his course on optimizing VS Code, replicated his whole workflow, and for a while I felt like I'd leveled up.

Then a few months later, VS Code felt "bloated and slow." Was it? Or was I just bored? I was procrastinating. Switching back to Sublime was easier than pushing through the hard problem in front of me.

I spend more hours in my code editor than anywhere else in my life. More than my bed. More than my kitchen. Of course my brain starts looking for exits. It's not optimization. It's cabin fever.

When the itch arrives, my brain builds a case for the prosecution. I start noticing tiny bugs I'd normally ignore. The LSP hiccups. The formatting that's slightly off. Nothing major, just little things I can point to and say see? friction.

My Sublime setup is perfect, and that's the problem. There's nothing left to tweak. So I manufacture reasons to leave.

There's a bug I've been avoiding for three days. A refactor that keeps growing teeth. And instead of sitting with that discomfort, I blame my productivity on the editor. As if the reason I'm stuck is the font rendering and not the fact that I'm avoiding the hard problem.

Every switch is a field trip. Every return is coming home.

Sublime is home base. It's the editor I used at the beginning of my professional career. The one I learned to code in. I always come back to it, not because it's objectively the best, but because it's where I started.

I don't think I'll ever stop switching. New alternatives come out every year, and each time I'll feel that pull. Switching editors is how I scratch the itch without scratching the real itch. It's my weird pressure valve.

The feeling of new gives me a temporary reset, a fresh coat of paint on the same room. Then the paint dries, the groove deepens, and the itch returns.

The switching isn't the problem. The problem is pretending the switch is about the tool.

The tools we use aren't just tools. They're the rooms we live in. Sometimes you just need to rearrange the furniture, not because the old layout was wrong, but because you forgot what it felt like to walk through a door for the first time.

Next time you feel the itch to switch: is it the tool you're tired of, or the work?