The good news is, I think I know how to fix it. It may require some major surgery and an organ transplant, but I know what to do.
I hate broken stories. They hurt. Until I can figure out how to fix them--sometimes until I get the work done--they make a physical sensation of pressure in my chest, like being unable to draw a breath. I get very anxious and crabby, and I want to whine and pace like a nervous dog until they stop being broken. And when a broken one makes it into print (as does occasionally happen, due to deadline pressure or my never figuring out how to fix something that's been written to contract) I have to live with the knowledge that it will be out there, broken, forever.
Yeah, best job ever. I'm going to bed.