It is also clear, as the busy-building weavers remind us, that while success or failure in the energy quest will always shape the evolutionary trajectory of any species, many hard-to-explain animal traits and behaviors may well have been shaped by the seasonal overabundance of energy rather than the battle for scarce resources, and that in this may lie a clue as to why we, the most energy-profligate of all species, work so hard.

With our super-plastic neocortices and well-organized senses, Homo sapiens are the gluttons of the informavore world. We are uniquely skilled at acquiring, processing, and ordering information, and uniquely versatile when it comes to letting that information shape who we are. And when we are deprived of sensory information, like a prisoner in solitary confinement, we conjure sometimes fantastical information-rich worlds from the darkness to feed our inner informavore.

And pausing has other benefits as well. Studies my colleagues and I conducted found that pausing led speakers to be perceived more positively. It not only gave the audience time to process what was said, it encouraged them to respond with short verbal indicators of agreement (e.g., “Yeah,” “Un-hunh,” or “Okay”), which led them to like the speaker more overall.

So rather than saying “um” or “uh,” take a second to pause. People will perceive us more positively and be more likely to follow our suggestions.

We run faster because of the accumulation of collective knowledge about sports engineering and nutrition. With the aid of coaches this knowledge becomes collective intelligence – know that becomes know how. We eat better apples because plant species were carried across the world and because of the accumulation of collective knowledge of techniques of cross-breeding. The collaboration of Sam Mussabini and Harold Abrahams won an Olympic gold medal, and the collaboration of botanists at Washington State University, local growers and breeders and marketing and branding agencies produced the Cosmic Crisp. By accumulating collective knowledge, applying collective intelligence and practising the division of labour on a global and inclusive basis, humans have become better at ... almost everything.

This cognitive ability to remember the past and anticipate the future is one reason some of us feel so busy—not because of the number of tasks we have to complete in the day, but because of the sheer number of things competing for our attention. What is commonly called “distraction” is probably better understood as overstimulation.

Recent findings in neuroscience have shown that our conscious minds cannot do more than one thing at a time. It may feel like you are able to multitask and think about two (or more) things at once, but really your mind is switching between them. This is a costly process neurologically speaking. Switching from one task to another takes energy and a measurable amount of time. Then, when we switch back, it takes another period of time to really wrap our minds around the original object of attention. And it’s not only about the time cost; it’s about the quality of our attention. If we are always switching from one thing to another, then we are never able to truly focus and experience the pleasure and effectiveness of a focused mind. Instead we live in a state of constant recalibration, or what the writer Linda Stone perceptively calls “continuous partial attention.”

Human awareness is not the speedy, nimble creature some of us believe it to be. Our brains have evolved to be more like owls than hummingbirds: we notice something, turn our attention to it, and focus in. It is in this state of intense, solitary focus that we are in possession of our most uniquely human and powerful mental faculties. When we focus on one thing, we are at our most thoughtful, creative, and productive.

But in the screen-heavy environment of the twenty-first century, our mind-owls, large and unwieldy, are treated like hummingbirds, and they end up flopping ineffectively from one thing to the next. Doing this day in and day out accommodates us to what is actually an unnatural, anxiety-producing mode in which the mind struggles to find nourishment.

Which owl is going to feel busier, the one focusing on the sound of a mouse in the snow, or the one trying to draw tiny bits of nectar from a thousand flowers? And which owl is going to be, in the end, better nourished?