there are new shirts on the clothes racks, should I feel like one of them?

I need to be working on the novel and not writing this. I spent the whole weekend working on it and the editing is finally -- finally, finally, finally -- getting somewhere. Instead of three chapters, the first section now has 12. I think I've added 20 or so pages so far, which is the wrong direction because at a plump 240 pages I really should not add a bunch of description about the sticky fly-tape in the barn and the color of fields after sorghum grass blends are harvested, but there you have it. My very patient roommate (who I think started out sort of enjoying the 400,000 questions about his childhood on the dairy farm but is now thoroughly disenchanted with my "research" process) has started drawing pictures of outbuildings and milking machines on yellow legal paper, and now a little sketch of the layout of his/my farm is hanging above my desk. I kind of love it.

Here is the question upon which I am stuck like sticky fly-tape, though: Is it really possible for me to push words around a page all day and then come home and push more of them around? Are there enough pixels in the universe? What if I deplete the finite pixel supply? What if the pixels (and my eyeballs, and my brain cells) get mad and say they'll never come talk to me again if I keep abusing them this way?