Back in the day, I was a salaryman. A Japanese megacorp owned me body and soul.
If you had asked me, during much of those three years, whether I was overworked, I would have told you no. Seventy hours was surely not more than many salarymen worked, and anyhow, I had just had a nice relaxing 50 hour week only... what month is it again? I would have described myself as an attentive boyfriend, and didn't understand at all why a girlfriend might disagree with that assessment. My best friends had an album titled Patrick Falling Asleep At Parties -- they were such kidders, those two. I had blackouts. I stayed in a hotel frequently, some days because it was impossible to catch the last train but some days because while I technically could have made the train I was staggering so much I was uncertain that I'd make it home safely. Somebody once did a graph of HN posts by hour it was utterly impossible to identify core sleep hours for me by looking at it, for three years. When my salaryman friends and I got together for dinners we'd do the requisite amount of kvetching about our jobs and then talk about people who had real problems. Did you hear about how bad it gets at the Tokyo office? Cripes, we dodged a bullet, didn't we.
In hindsight, I can only describe it as three years of temporary insanity.
I don't want to attack any part of your self-conception, and wish only for your happiness. In that spirit: consider the possibility that alexandros is executing on unreliable hardware and attempt to get verifiable external measurements about what that hardware is telling you.