I think you are trying to fit the narrative to your own bias and experience. Tolstoy thought the opposite, to offer a countervailing outlook. > I cannot now help seeing day and night going round and bringing me to death. That is all I see, for that alone is true. All else is false. The two drops of honey which diverted my eyes from the cruel truth longer than the rest: my love of family, and of writing -- art as I called it -- were no longer sweet to me. Tolstoy

Now, as to how he dealt with this angst, that's a story for another time