The thing about working on short stories for much of the last few vertiginous months is that I write them fast enough that there really isn't a sense of progress on the same project for very long. I start a short story. I finish a short story. There may be a few days when I will say, "I made progress on [story]," and they may be spread out, but there's no building sense of accomplishment: the story doesn't exist, then it does.
There has been progress on the PT front, but it's all been more the kind that we measure with fancy machines rather than the kind that lets me, y'know, feel normal and live life without leaning on somebody at every second. So the lack of progress on either novel revisions or new novel for months on end had been driving me just nutso.
But now! Now this new revision system is so happy and fine! I am officially down to fewer than half the remaining chapters for revision, and yes, some of them are the chapters that need the most done to them, but progress, progress, progress! It's nowhere near submission quality. It is not yet the book I want it to be. It will get a few eyes on it at first, and then a few more. But today, not only did I do some things that needed doing, I was able to make them do double duty or more; it got all layered and neat and did the sorts of things revision is supposed to do. It is a better book than it was this morning when I woke up. And I have missed that so much, the sensation that I have taken action and something I care about has improved in a large enough increment to be noticeable as a result.
I may still be staggering and lurching around. I may still be dreaming of malfunctioning space stations and making myself sick by turning my head. I may still have limited computer time before it makes me sick as well. But I'm able to use that time, and that helps a very great deal.