The clothes make the manic

I generally wear different "uniforms" for different jobs. When I'm working outside hacking a trail through the front yard or defoliating a garden bed, I wear my favourite slouchy jeans: men's Tony Hawk. Comfy, rugged, even filthy dirty they look good.
When I'm working in the house it's yoga pants and a tshirt and depending on the chore with which I'm currently occupied, an apron. I'm an apron girl. If I have to go out I'll throw on another pair of equally ratty jeans and my super comfy, red, Land's End mocs. Casual, all the way. Who am I trying to impress, right?
I think I need to change my writing uniform though. My brain sees the yoga pants and habitually starts moving around the house shifting things hither and thither. If I wear jeans I inevitably find myself hoiking weeds out of their homes in the front yard or garden. Apparently the uniform and the brain are deeply entrenched.
The jammies and the bathrobe are not cutting it either. How many mornings has my forehead mashed the keys of my trusty HP Laptop because my brain thought it should still be sleeping? Too numerous to count, I assure you.
Maybe if I treated the writing of my great american novel like an office job. To dress the part I could raid my career stash that fit roughly fifteen years ago, pre-baby. Pantyhose so tight my fingernails turn blue, bunions straining in impractical heels like Dr. David Banner getting ready to hulk-out, a pencil skirt that limits the movement of my legs so I can't even comfortably cross my legs without splitting a seam. Then I force my brain to come up with at least 2,000 legitimate, lucid, and relative to the storyline words before I can shuffle back from the computer, take a shallow breath, and hobble back to the bedroom for a quick change of uniform. Not a 400 item to-do list. Not 800 words of mediocre prose. Not 1,500 words of strained dialogue. 2,000 words of mind altering, life changing, thought provoking, eureka shouting, forehead slapping literature. Every day.
Maybe a nice pantsuit.