If you have ever toured a submarine (I have) you know that every space is filled with something, whether recognizable or not. That's my studio!
Before I ever used a lathe, during the travel days of my youth, I visited a maker of musical instruments named Joo Saz in the old city of Srinagar, in Kashmir. His workshop, located on the second floor of a rickety looking brick and wood building, contained lots of stuff: lumber, blocks of wood, more lumber, hand tools, piles of shavings, no electricity, limited light through two windows, piles of baskets containing who-knows-what, coils of wire, jars and vessels filled with unknown substances, and a small area of floor space where he and his father sat and worked. The latter carved blocks of mulberry wood into hollowed bodies for sarangis, a sort of indian violin. He worked only by feel, since he was blind. A few partially finished instruments leaned casually against the clutter. I found it very hard to believe that anything of quality, anything functional or beautiful could arise from this chaos. However, it did, and I eventually purchased an instrument which I still have today.
Now, in my own workshop, I realize that an un-knowing visitor (not a craftsperson or artist) might well draw the same conclusion upon seeing the cramped and random looking array of lumber, blocks of wood, small tools, containers of who-knows-what, clamps, piles of shavings, dust, and a few partially finished turnings sitting here or there.