Why a seamstress does not suffer burnout

I am watching mother at her wheel.
And listening to her; she likes to talk.
An electrical machine, neat and quick
Basic functions- terrific.
Bobbin filler, eleven stitches, sewing light switch!
Flat bed attachment, presser foot;
accessory compartment- let’s have our toys!

Now she’s whistling
The tune of Christmas costumes.
Here’s more sequins for the good three kings,
Let the white adorn our angel!
(more sequins, dear?)
Should Joseph have a vest, or not?
“So to honor Him, pa rum pum pum pum, When we come.”

Here she mumbles as she measures a piece.
Only one true standard that we will keep-
That it fits you, not you fit it.
Plus-size model, or scrawny boy?
Prosperous bosom; two-scarred legs;
This silk will dress you, you will see.

The only time I see her furrowed brows,
Is when “the stitch isn’t right- come see it here.”
Yet my plain young eyes don't see the fault.
She fiddles here, unpicks the mess.
Plums the fabric and strings the thread.
One more churning and it’s done.

She looks up flushed; tired, but it is done.
She is smiling as she holds it up-
The amazing garment is true to last.
As I finger it and twirl it round,
The seamstress packs up remaining thread.
Folding unused cotton back, and switches
The machine off, it’s time for bed.