I do this physically, too. I work out six days, most weeks. The seventh day, I rest and notice what my body is doing. How my lungs are breathing. How my muscles move and how they stay still. Balance and alignment. It's usually on this seventh day that I notice that I need to ease up or push harder on something, that I need to change the mix of what I'm doing that week, that I need more water or more breaks from the computer. And if I find I'm feeling fidgety, I'm still allowed to do whatever the body seems inclined towards that day, just as I'm allowed to scribble down snippets if they seem like they're important on my days off from writing. But I try to take the time to find out.
I think that one of the things about being an adult* is noticing one's characteristic errors and figuring out how to work around them. Are you generally early or late, or does it vary by circumstance, and if so, what circumstance? Are you generally repeating yourself or forgetting to tell people things? Are you generally an object in motion or an object at rest? I understand that for some people, taking the space to not work out, to not write, to not practice the piano, to not do whatever other thing they genuinely think is good and worth doing, means that they will be more likely not to pick it up again the next day. And so if they really do want to do something, they need to try as hard as they can to never stop. This is why they tell young writers, "You must write every day if you want to be a professional." Like nearly every other piece of writing advice, it's true for some people and not for everyone. Like nearly every other piece of writing advice, it's best thought of as something to try, not something that'll definitely work.
I'm writing this down because this is the way that's true for me, and I have run across other times when people had their eyes open to writing out of sequence, or to thinking in terms of relationships instead of individual character, or any of a number of other ways of constructing tribal lays.
*Being, not becoming. I don't think there is some magical year -- divisible by 10, no doubt -- after which you know all of the inner workings of your own brain perfectly and can just coast along through the rest of your life. I expect to sit up straight suddenly, one day when I'm 92, and say, "Oh! That's why I've always done such-and-such!" Adulthood is an ongoing process, or ought to be.