A sense of relief washes over me. The shaking in my legs and right arm has stopped.

As my medication kicks in, my brain fog begins to lift and my hands move more freely across the keyboard of my computer. Finally I can get on with my work.

This is a ritual I go through several times a day as a result of the onset of Parkinson’s disease, the neurological condition that causes the nervous system to degenerate. There is no cure, though drugs can ameliorate the worst of the symptoms.

Having been diagnosed with it six years ago, I have grown used to the regular interruptions whenever a Parkinson’s episode descends.

At these moments, there is little I can do except take my pills and wait for the storm to pass.

Apart from holding up my work as a writer, other problems add to my  frustrations.

Getting out of bed at night has become a kind of Olympic sport for me, involving a lot of groans, occasional tears and an array of improvised equipment to provide leverage.I now walk with a slow shuffle, relying on a stick or a stroller to provide balance, while I often alternate between freezing immobility and involuntary swaying, like a drunken sailor caught on deck in a hurricane.

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Leo McKinstry was diagnosed with Parkinson’s six years ago but refuses to stop working

Humiliations are common. Earlier this week, I was flying to London from Belfast. Towards the end of the flight I had to go to the toilet, but I was shaking too violently to use it standing up. After sitting down, I then struggled to pull up my trousers.

By now the anxiety of the air steward was mounting, as the plane went into its final descent. Switching between urgent entreaties and frantic knocks on the toilet door, he urged me to come out whatever state I was in. So with belt undone and trousers sliding down my thighs, I made the embarrassing trip back to my seat.

Many people are surprised that I am still working. But after 30 years as a freelance writer, I have no intention of retiring. My Parkinson’s diagnosis in 2019 came as a shock, but since then I have continued as a columnist and have produced two substantial and research-heavy books.

I’m motivated partly by expediency, in that I simply cannot afford to retire as I have only a small pension. But working also gives my life a sense of purpose, a reason to get out of bed each morning – or, in my case, roll out and slide on to the floor before hauling myself up.

It is this spirit that makes me despair of modern Britain, where traditional diligence seems to be evaporating. Obsessed by mental illness, our society endlessly encourages new recruits to pore over grievances, wallow in invented victimhood and medicalise normal negative feelings.

So a refusal to obey instructions can be classified as ‘oppositional defiant disorder’, just as an inability to concentrate is labelled ‘attention deficit hyperactivity disorder’.

This trend suits many vested interests, such as the psychiatric profession, the counselling industry and drugs giants, but it is bad news for our economy and the strength of the workforce.

In 1907, the Liberal statesman Lord Rosebery warned in a speech: ‘The state invites us to lean upon it. The strongest man, if encouraged, may soon accustom himself to the methods of an invalid.’ That is exactly what is happening today as helplessness is celebrated and fragility rewarded.

The disastrous consequences were spelled out in a report published last week by a taskforce led by Sir Charlie Mayfield, the former head of John Lewis, who said that destruction of the work ethic by Britain’s sicknote culture is costing our nation an astonishing £212billion a year in welfare payments, lost production and burdens on the NHS.

What particularly concerned Sir Charlie is the fashionable practice of giving employees time off for every kind of emotional difficulty. This approach undermines personal responsibility and removes the ability to cope with new challenges. ‘Setbacks are part of life,’ he says, wisely, adding that they should not be confused with genuine health conditions.

This point was reinforced last week by the release of official figures that show that anxiety, ‘bad nerves’ and depression are the most common reason for young people to drop out of work or study, just as poor mental health is the prime explanation for the recent surges in both welfare claims and absenteeism in the public sector.

These problems may have dramatically worsened but excessive sick leave on the state payroll has long been endemic in Britain.

I’m reminded of the former Greater London Council leader, Sir Horace Cutler, who was asked how many people worked for his authority. ‘About half of them,’ he quipped.

I experienced this culture in my first job after graduating from university in 1985. It was an administrative position with Northern Ireland Housing Executive, and I was amazed at the number of colleagues who regarded 20 days’ sick leave as part of their annual entitlement.

Keen to work in the media, I then took a job with a broadcast monitoring service in London, in which the fiercely competitive atmosphere meant that any form of absence was barely tolerated. I responded in kind, and continued my allergy to taking sick days over the eight years I worked as an aide to Labour politicians – including Harriet Harman.

But as a Labour councillor in charge of personnel – as human resources used to be known – in Islington, north London, I saw the worst kinds of institutionalised idleness in the poorly managed, ultra-unionised workforce.

On any given day, a quarter of the staff in children’s centres were off sick, while one housing estate caretaker, granted long-term leave on medical grounds, turned out to be a mercenary fighting in the Kosovo civil war.

Cases such as that fed my overriding quest to reduce absenteeism, so much so that a furious union shop steward picked up a glass and told me: ‘If you say one more time that we need to change the culture, I’m going to smash this in your face.’

The threat was never carried out. Disillusioned with politics and locally unpopular, I lost my Islington council seat in 1994, paving the way for a career as a writer.

As such, I am paid, not by the hours I put in, but by the books or articles I complete. Even so, my work ethic compels me to meet deadlines and accept as many commissions as I can.

I have delivered copy from motorway services, hotels, hospital corridors and airport departure lounges. I even wrote a lengthy column on the day before my father’s funeral in 2012.

I have had to slow down because of Parkinson’s – but I will not quit yet.

I am lucky not only to have work that I find fulfilling, but also a wonderfully supportive wife, who challenges me if I ever start to slide into gloom about my future.

We both know that work is a bulwark against, not a threat to, mental health.

Moreover, I try to take inspiration from formidable figures of the past who were never daunted by the severe obstacles they faced, such as the RAF pilot Douglas Bader who flew minus his legs, and the titanic US President Franklin Roosevelt, paralysed by polio.

The contrast with today’s narcissistic neurotics, eagerly displaying their badges of vulnerability, could not be greater.