Format the following passage properly, for storytelling purposes.

Perfectionism. A five-syllable word that perhaps best summarizes myself. It has been a part of me from the time I was a child and now, maybe more than ever before, I contemplate how to embrace everything that is good about this quality, while ensuring it does not undo the balance I strive to maintain in my life. It all goes back to the four planes of consciousness. If mental is not balanced with emotional, spiritual, and physical, the imbalance that is manifested serves as a catalyst for disharmony and can potentially trigger a chain reaction of bad events in someone's life. On this particular day, my first Friday here at JARC, I would describe myself as being a 'neglectful perfectionist'. I had been of the understanding that the kitchen would be closed in observance of Passover, and unwisely I delayed going to bed until it was nearly midnight. I could have gotten away with it when I was still living in my old house, but living in a place where breakfast is served at anywhere from 6:00am to 6:30am, a place where the lights are turned off before 9:30pm (and on one occasion were already off before 8:30pm), you'll pay a much steeper price for bedtime procrastination. I had the notion of wearing my long pants to what I thought would be a day in the leisure center (though it may be better described as an auditorium), but not until a shade under twenty minutes to go before we got in the van to head out for JARC's day program did I think to grab my baseball cap and put it on. Turns out I was on to something, because we did have work scheduled for today. I wouldn't say I was running on fumes but I was definitely working on adrenaline. Being in that environment excites me, and I immediately started looking for things to do. One of my coworkers gave me not one, but two mini-tours to show me a room where the canned vegetables and other interesting foods are kept, as well as a room with cleaning supplies. I found myself working in the 'parve' dish-washing section again, and can say I've come to enjoy the experience. The feeling of holding the spray nozzle and hosing down containers, of closing the door of an industrial-grade washing machine and hearing the water and soap flow inside, of scrubbing and wiping down the giant trays that won't even fit in that washer, is one that makes me very happy. It is something I would like to do for a long time, not just because I enjoy it but because I am able to do it in the presence of people who make me laugh and keep my spirits high. Today was an atypical day, a slower shift than usual in which I found myself having less things to do than normal. I've come to find that when I am with another coworker, whose interest I have been able to hold by watching videos with him (including ones involving Pac-Man, Tom and Jerry, Spookley the Square Pumpkin, Ralph Breaks the Internet, TJ Maxx, Hanukkah, and Dumbo), it is easy for us to get sidetracked. After returning from my lunch break, which itself was preceded by an unusually lengthy intermission in the break room, it seemed like our manager was upset with me and one of my coworkers for still being in the break room when there were things that needed to be done in the kitchen. I got up and began to look around. I heard someone say to grab a mop. I looked and found a few, but was uncertain as to whether I was the one to whom the instruction was given. A request goes out for a broom and dustpan to be grabbed. My thought is to grab them. I have a pretty good grasp on how the idea of sweeping the floor works, but a part of me is concerned that my sweeping will mess up my coworkers' mopping efforts. I continue to look around; usually, my initial instinct is to see if anyone needs help packing sides, but it's not applicable today. The prep work has already taken place earlier in the week, and we are going into the final stages of ensuring a bundle of meals will be successfully delivered to the hungry customers who are looking forward to them. I believe in my heart that I did the best that I could do, but there is still a part of me that is concerned. Older people seem to complain, in my opinion justifiably so, that the quality of human labor--the effort invested into the services one provides--is by and large inferior to how things used to be. As much as possible, I hope to be part of the solution, and not the problem. My next instinct is to go to the dish-washing station. I'm in luck as I happen to spot a few things that can be washed, but I am encouraged by one of the senior employees that my help is not needed there; it remained unnecessary upon making a return visit to the station some ten minutes later. Some time afterwards, the manager begins to loudly question why there was a red (meat) spoon in the yellow (parve) station. I consider that I may have been negligent in recognizing a case of likely cross-contamination, and I get as quiet as a mouse; ultimately, I am vindicated when it turns out the spoon was indeed yellow. Recognizing that a coworker has been tasked with disposing of garbage bags, I see him struggling with a particularly heavy one and offer my assistance right then and there. Initially I try to lift it myself; it proves a formidable adversary, though with some teamwork we take care of it, and bring it out back to toss it into a rather gargantuan trash compactor. Apparently, we were supposed to rinse the cans, and I remember doing this at Kentucky Fried Chicken but have yet to learn the proper method of doing so here at JARC. There were times where I would be walking, looking for things to do, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed the manager watching me. Perhaps it was paranoia more than anything else, but I began to feel concern that the quality of my work might be slipping. Having been here all of five days, my perfectionism was already getting the better of me. I felt like I should know better. Thinking that I was done for the day, I stood outside the door to the kitchen, wondering if I would soon be sent home. Over a walkie-talkie frequency, I already heard calls being put out for people and group home residents to head out for their rides. I was asked to come back inside, and it felt just like Wednesday, where accumulated mistakes got the better of me mentally. I took off my cap and started quietly sobbing into it, for even though a good friend had offered reassurances already, I still felt frustrated. My manager saw me, I explained the situation; she assured me I should not beat myself up. I plan to take her words to heart. I am hoping something like this won't happen again. I do not want to return to unemployment.