We all have our rituals. I'm still using up my stash of Walt Berger bullets. I use the Vern Juenke machine, though nobody has ever figured out what it measures. And in addition to all the other incantations from the witch doctors who inhabit the accuracy community, I half-seat my bullets, rotate my case 180 degrees, and finish with another stroke of the press to give a full seat and straighten up whatever I imagine might be crooked from the first half-seating.
That, in addition to an embarrassing amount of money spent on custom dies, same-lot Lapua or Norma brass or induction annealed Lake City, using a laboratory analytic scale, a lathe dedicated to neck turning, yadda-yadda-woof!-woof! Of course I raise a wet finger in the air to check the wind. Proven scopes that consistently (always) hold center in actual tests. Always using the optical center of the scope. Using one or two perfect cases (indexed) for the entire afternoon, no caffeine, oh yeah.
All of this, and I can still pull a shot out of the group by X.XX" when the shooter next door lets fly with a high intensity load through a short barrel with a danmed brake on it. At that point I go up to the clubhouse and brew a cup of chamomile tea or lightly sweetened Yerba Matte.
When all else fails, I go home and tell the most beautiful woman in the world that I need another (just one more!) gun. She laughs, I take an action to my smith, and we start all over again.