Think that's scary, imagine the old and grizzled Handlers.
Every day he's a mix between investigator, counsellor and tactician. He has to know everything he can or someone dies. He has to think on his feet and try to influence the battle while miles away, or someone dies. He has to put his trust in someone who a mere year ago may have been a sociopathic killer, he has to trust that man (or woman) with everything, and then when they come home he has to keep them on track, help them deal with the fact they're nothing but an expendable asset, a tool to be used and then shelved.
And then once he's done all of that, he gets on the subway and goes home to his empty apartment and looks at the pictures on the shelf of his ex-wife and son. He doesn't see them any more, she couldn't handle how much of his life was spent in his job. His son is a full grown man now, who last saw his father when the supposedly powerful man was weeping over a machine he had sent to its death.
He gulps down the whiskey in the glass in his left hand, the burning sensation enough to distract him for a few seconds. Then he looks at the gun in his right hand and considers it. Just for a few seconds he wonders how much he wants to cling to this life. And then he puts it back in the drawer and drinks until he passes out.
Tomorrow he will wake up, go to work, and be chewed out by his boss because his insubordinate 'borg let one of the terrorists get away while he was saving a hostage, and he will sit there and take it, all because that insubordinate 'borg needs him right now.