A drawer is a small room whose only building regulation is that the ceiling must close.
On a desk, objects have to justify their positions. Inside a drawer, compatibility becomes much looser: a cable can live beside stamps, a spare button and a key whose authority has expired. This is not exactly disorder. It is a storage system organised around postponing decisions.
Drawers are especially good at preserving intermediate states. Too useful to discard, too unidentified to assign, too awkward to display: in it goes. The handle then converts a collection of unresolved questions into a smooth rectangle of furniture.
Eventually closure becomes informative. Something catches; the drawer advances three centimetres and refuses further diplomacy. To fix it, one must open the entire argument and discover which object has begun standing upright.