The sentence I'd carry out of a burning building: "I don't really hyper-focus on anything because I don't allow myself to do that."
I've got alarms set so nothing gets more of me than I've decided it deserves. I start to sink into arts and crafts, then I pull myself out because it isn't helping my finances. So the one state where my brain runs clean, the state I lived in as a kid when I drew and painted and made things out of anything I could get my hands on, is the one state I've made illegal in my own house.
What I'm really saying is that pleasure still has to file paperwork. Somewhere I accepted a rule that my attention is only allowed to land on something that can be graded, sold, or justified to someone else. And I've enforced it so faithfully that now I do the ignoring myself, in my own kitchen, with nobody else in the room.