Pig × The Engine-Smith
It makes things head-down; satisfying itself is enough, and it never measures against others.
The Engine-Smith makes things head-down at the bench, the craftsman's red fire, the way Betelgeuse glows in the furnace-light of a Waxing Gibbous. The Pig in you does the craft for your own satisfaction and never once measures it against the next bench over. So you build comfortably, with care, and the rigor never curdles into self-torment.
Most Engine-Smiths flog themselves on a standard no one set but them, and some blow up on perfectionism. Your contentment loosens that rope. You polish a thing because the polishing feels right, not because a rival is one coat ahead, and you hand it over the moment it is good enough for you. There is real craft here and zero anguish, which is a combination the brutal version of this type never finds.
The fault line is that extra notch. Good-enough-for-me arrives early, and you stop, short of the refining-and-refining that would lift the work from solid to fine. The Gibbous moon swells toward full but you settle before it gets there. Too content, you leave the last ten percent on the table because the first ninety already pleased you. When the piece could genuinely be excellent, treat your own satisfaction as the signal to keep going, not the signal to stop.
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A mirror, not a prophecy. It reflects you as you are right now. How you walk is still yours to choose.