Driven
You are not idleness waiting to be exposed. You are pressure that finally found a direction.
To be driven is to be moved by something you did not entirely choose. The word carries the old image of the herd and the goad, of being pushed from behind toward a horizon you keep redrawing. You are not simply ambitious. Ambition wants a prize; you want the next thing, and the next, and the arrival never quite arrives. There is a hand at your back, and often it is your own.
Right now, this is who you are: the person who cannot leave the engine idling. You measure the day by what moved. When others pause to admire the view, you have already located the next ridge. This is not restlessness for its own sake. Something in you believes that motion is the proof you are alive, that to stop is to thin out and disappear.
The truth the word holds is that the force is real and it is yours, even when it feels like weather you are caught inside. You are not idleness waiting to be exposed. You are pressure that has finally found a direction, a current that would rather carve rock than sit still. Give it a shape worth carving, and the same push that exhausts you becomes the clearest thing about you.
Underneath driven, the reading most often finds the Builder rhythm, the pattern moving under the behavior.