Nye's Digital Lab is a weekly scribble about creativity at the intersection of AI & distributed systems.

This week, I'm cracking open my sketchbook again. It's something we all should consider doing a lot more of.

Some people obsessively organize their rooms when they're anxious.

Others color in books, knit, or solve candy-crush combinations. There's something about small repetitive actions that calms our brains, but I believe this is especially true for artists and creative people.

I say this because lately, I've started drawing again.

Drawing was something I did somewhat obsessively for years before I rerouted into computers. I could come up with a single idea, then a series of ideas for a comic on paper. But to tell stories across larger spaces, and to interact with those ideas algorithmically, required learning about developing for the virtual world.

And that meant computers, 3D, networks, computer science, and engines. So that's where my brain and learning efforts went. But computers aren't as elegant as a piece of paper when you wish to explore and improvise.

As I allow myself the time to doodle across pages more, I realize that drawing has multiple uses for me. I doodle when I'm trying to figure something out or think it through. But honestly, I just doodle because I'm freaking out or stressed. (Doom-scrolled the news lately?)

Maybe then, drawing isn't going away because of AI.

Maybe it's more important than it ever has been. Maybe authentic scribbles from human improvisational wandering are going to be critical for our well-being and sanity. It's a guess, but it's fueling my return to my sketchbooks.

For me, drawing isn't separate from thinking; it IS thinking.

When I need to work through a problem, I ceremoniously flip the band off a Moleskine. When I see a whiteboard, you can bet it will be filled with dry-erase chaos in moments. The act of moving my hand to construct forms while my brain processes information creates a connection that pure mental work can't achieve alone.

It's backed by science!

Drawing, doodling, even just making marks on paper engages a different part of your brain than verbal thinking. It's a conversation between your conscious mind and your subconscious through your hands. When you're sketching, you're not just creating... you're writing, researching, and playing all at once.

When I attempt to solve a complex problem or work through a difficult conversation, I always start noodling. As I try to think about a system or a workflow, I begin to improvise, sketching little patterns or shapes without even realizing it. Scientifically, your brain is using that repetitive action to stay engaged and process information. It's not distraction, it's a form of active thinking that helps you understand things differently.

I think good artists understand this instinctively. We don't just draw what we see; we draw to see. Every line is a thought, every scribble a micro-decision, every composition a way of understanding the world. The repetitive nature of mark-making creates a meditative state where anxious thoughts can be processed without overwhelming us.

This meditative state is critical.

Being human in this universe has its moments, but come on... it is genuinely anxiety-inducing. We're conscious beings floating on a rock in empty space. I spend all my time trying to make sense of existence while knowing that everything is ultimately random and temporary. It makes the universe feel big, dark, cold... and lonely.

Artists, I wager, tend to feel this existential weight more acutely. We're sensitive to the chaos around us, which is partly what makes us creative, but it also makes us prone to anxiety. We need ways to fill our minds with meaningful activity to avoid spiraling into that dark hole of "what's the point of anything?"

Repetitive actions serve as a buffer against this anxiety.

When you're focused on cleaning up a key in animation software, carefully shading a portrait, or even just mindlessly doodling patterns, you're giving your brain something constructive to do with all that nervous energy. It's like giving your anxiety a job.

I spent years as an animator, and some of my most satisfying work was the tedious stuff, cleaning up motion capture data, refining curves, making rough animations smooth. Each adjustment was small, but the cumulative effect was transformative. Watching chaos become order, curve by curve, gave me a sense of control and accomplishment that extended far beyond the technical task.

Picture a 1950s housewife stress-vacuuming her home. The repetitive motion, the visible lines on the carpet, the sense of imposing order on chaos. These activities provide psychological comfort that goes way beyond their practical purpose.

The house gets clean, but we know she's calming the chaos within her mind.

Artists are basically professional anxiety managers.

We take the chaos of existence and turn it into something meaningful. (ie stories, images, sounds, experiences.) But that process requires us to stay mentally engaged with difficult emotions and ideas that most people try to avoid.

The repetitive aspects of art-making aren't bugs in the system. They're features. When you're doing detailed work, whether it's crosshatching, painting texture, or even just sketching the same character over and over, you're not just practicing technique. You're creating a safe space where your mind can wander, process, and make connections without being overwhelmed.

This is why so many artists are drawn to mediums that require patience and repetition. Printmaking, where you might pull dozens of versions of the same image. Ceramics, where you're constantly repeating the same hand movements. Even game development can become a mindless tumble in 3D engines, tweaking and pushing little lighting adjustments or assets around the space.

The key insight is that these repetitive actions aren't separate from creativity, they're essential to it. They create the mental conditions where genuine exploration can happen. When your hands are busy with familiar motions, your mind is free to make unexpected connections and improvise.

Without these repetitive actions, artists risk losing not just their technical skills, but their primary tool for mental health maintenance. We need these activities not just to make better art, but to stay sane in a world that often feels like it's spinning out of control.

Now we're entering an age where artificial intelligence can handle many of the tasks that used to require human repetition. Code can be generated automatically, designs can be created by algorithms, and even some forms of art can be produced by AI systems. This creates a weird paradox: as technology makes us more efficient, we could will become less psychologically stable.

So, why start drawing again?

Instead of fearing that AI will steal our repetitive actions, we should use it to protect them. Let AI handle the parts of creative work that are genuinely tedious. You know the stuff you hate right? The business development, the marketing, the technical troubleshooting. Social media... ugh! Let's use AI on that.

Now, use that freedom to spend MORE time on the repetitive actions that actually make you feel good.

If you're a painter, paint more. If you're a sketcher, sketch more. If you love the meditative process of inking comic pages, then f*cking ink more comic pages. Don't let AI automate away the activities that keep your mind healthy. Instead, use AI to eliminate the stuff you actually hate doing so you can focus on the stuff that makes you feel human.

The goal isn't to become more efficient at everything. You can't. Life is too complicated to automate across the board.

This is clear to me now. It's to become more human at the things that matter. In a world full of generative muck, our ability to find meaning in simple, repetitive, physical actions might be one of our most valuable skills.

So keep doodling. (Talking to myself here too!)

Keep making those tiny marks that add up to something bigger. Keep using your hands to think through problems. I really think your mental health depends on it, and honestly, so does your art. Let's all hope we collectively wake up and realize that's more important than robots.

Thanks for reading. I do this every week. If you vibe to the ideas I write, consider subscribing or sharing with friends. We'll see you next time.

Nye Warburton is a systems designer and sometimes cartoonist from Savannah, GA. This essay was written with human labor, but grammar checked and conversationally augmented with Anthropic Claude Sonnet. Images are drawn without the aid of any generative models.

For more information visit: https://nyewarburton.com

• Analogous Connections of the Mind, June 2025

• Childhood's End, May 2025

• To teach or not to teach Artificial Intelligence, Fall 2022