Handling something does not feel like handling it. It feels like getting to three in the afternoon, then to the evening, then discovering you have somehow arrived at Thursday.
The unit is smaller than people expect. Not the year — the next hour, which is nearly always survivable, and which is the only piece genuinely in front of you.
Anyone who has come through a long difficult stretch will tell you they did not handle it. They will say the time passed. Those turn out to be the same thing, described from different distances.