You want to know why folding laundry feels so hopeless. I can tell you exactly, and it is not a personality flaw.
Look at the shirt in the basket. It is crumpled, tangled, thrown together with the socks and the one pillowcase in a shape that has no shape. There is precisely one way that pile could be neatly folded and stacked, and there are astronomically many ways for it to be a jumble.
This is not a metaphor. It is a count. Entropy is literally the logarithm of how many microscopic arrangements look the same from the outside, and "messy" simply has vastly more available arrangements than "tidy." The universe is not against you. It is just playing the odds, and the odds are staggering.
So when you fold, you are not merely being fussy. You are a warm-blooded engine burning sugar to force cotton fibers into one of the rare low-entropy configurations, paying for that local order by dumping heat and disorder into the room around you. The basket gets tidy; the universe gets messier, by more than the basket got neat.
It always nets out that way. Every clean drawer you have ever assembled was bought with a slightly warmer, slightly more disordered cosmos.
And the cotton itself: sugar chains a plant assembled out of carbon it stole from the air, carbon forged in dying stars and scattered across the galaxy before the Sun existed. You are folding starlight that learned to photosynthesize.
The basket empties by tomorrow evening. Of course it does. You are one small pocket of resistance, spending starlight and body heat to hold back the most reliable tendency in all of physics, one shirt at a time, and losing on schedule, gloriously.