If you want to feel good about Hollywood again, consider paying a visit to Bill Lawrence‘s office on the Warner Bros. lot. Down a tree-lined stretch sits a two-story bungalow, where the doors to Doozer Productions’ headquarters open and any nagging worries about contraction and mergers all but melt away.

Lawrence’s company is behind five current TV series, more than half of them shooting here in Burbank, and at least another two projects on deck. “I worry sometimes that I look like I’m trying to do everything in the world,” says Lawrence, when we meet in early May. “But when people are dumb enough to let me make things, I try to make as much as possible — because it’s not just me. It is so fun helping other people through this system when you can pull it off.”

People have been “dumb enough” to let Lawrence make things for more than three decades, though he clearly is the only one who sees it that way. A sitcom wunderkind, he was running the Michael J. Fox comedy Spin City at only 27 years old when mentor and co-creator Gary David Goldberg handed him the reins. From there, he created Scrubs, which ran for nine seasons, and Cougar Town, which ran for six. And while some swings and misses prompted a few dark years of the soul, his segue into streaming has propelled him to the apex of his Hollywood power.

Given the sheer volume of Doozer projects, his involvement varies. Season two of Apple TV’s Bad Monkey is in postproduction, so he’s just been consumed by the writers room for season two of the Steve Carell vehicle Rooster (HBO). But I find him as the fourth season of Shrinking (also Apple TV) is ramping up and again his primary focus. There’s also a Disney-produced Scrubs revival at ABC, but studio politics mean that the Warners-based Lawrence is largely hands off. As for the resurrected Ted Lasso, well, we’ll get to that.

“I get to bounce back and forth on these shows,” says Lawrence. “There’s a shorthand because they’re run by people I’ve worked with for years.”

Still, Lawrence insists that he’s finally calibrated his work-life balance. He’s home in time for dinner with his family most nights, though wife Christa Miller also stars on Shrinking and his youngest of three will spend the summer break from college as a Shrinking PA. Lawrence has also honed his sense of perspective, even if it’s often masked by self-depreciation. When asked if he believes this is as good as it gets, he responds: “It’s all downhill from here, man.”

We’re speaking a couple days out from the start of production on season four of Shrinking, a season that a lot of people did not expect to get …

It’s weird how TV works. I’m directing the first one, just because it feels like a new pilot and a new show in a lot of ways. But it’s the same show … same new show.

There’s a lot of online curiosity about you referring to it as a “new show.” Do you engage with that?

I like that people are unsure. I always engage with them online when I’m bored because I talk about TV the same way. I’m obsessed with The Pitt right now. If someone said that next season’s different, it’s the night shift, I would have a thousand questions.

I’m assuming Apple was enthusiastic about you keeping this show going?

The way that I’ve pitched shows has changed. When I started, you’d get asked in meetings, “What’s the hundredth episode?” The goal was to get a group of characters that people wanted to watch in perpetuity. They never changed that much. Now, when you’re pitching a streaming show, they often want to know the story you’re telling — beginning, middle and end. So, like with Ted Lasso, we had three seasons. First year is grief, second year is forgiveness and third year is moving forward. People, understandably, hear that and think that’s the whole show. The show is doing very well, so Apple came to us and asked if we were going to do more. We asked the cast if they wanted to keep going. You’ve heard Harrison [Ford] wax poetic about how much he loves the gig.

He recently said he initially only agreed to do two seasons, not three. Is that how you remember it?

I called up Harrison and said, “I’m going to do a three-season show. For you to take this job, you have to promise two seasons. I’ll take a handshake that says if you don’t want to do the third — and I bet you’re going to want to do it — you have to come back and let us say bye-bye to you as a character.” And he’s been the biggest champion. He likes to work. And people are coming up to him and talking about the show and not wanting him to sign Star Wars memorabilia.

You might be the only producer in L.A. right now who’s shooting three series on one lot. How’d you swing that?

We shoot Rooster, Shrinking and Bad Monkey on the Warner Bros. lot. I try to do all my production in L.A. Ted Lasso obviously has to shoot in London. Scrubs is our first show that we weren’t able to shoot here.

What’s the obstacle with Scrubs?

Straight money. We’re going to try and get it back here for the third season. It’s one of those equations that the money you’re given to make the show — and this is conjecture — equals like $3.5 million in L.A. and $5.6 million in Vancouver. And that’s a show that’s already very inexpensive; it’s a network TV show, and I couldn’t afford to make it here.

You’re not day-to-day on Scrubs, but that came back after nearly 20 years. Reboots are real hit-and-miss. How much do you worry about legacy?

We always argue about this in the writers rooms, and I’m the “legacy shmegacy” guy. The ninth year of Scrubs was supposed to be a spinoff called Med School. And people argue, “Oh, you ruined the legacy.” No, I didn’t. You loved the finale of season eight. You don’t get to go back in time and not like it because now you’ve seen this other season that, creatively, was a spinoff. I just don’t want to operate that way. I never want anything to feel like a money grab, but the writers and the cast came back, and I thought the idea of that kind of intriguing. Why not give it a shot? I’m never sweating the legacy aspect of it.

Rooster is your first show to actually air on a Warner Bros. platform. Was there pressure on you as this goose whose golden eggs were all going to Apple?

I didn’t expect to be having a career renaissance in my mid-50s. And mid-50s is generous. I’m 57! When I got here, I without a doubt was signed as a guy that knew how to make network shows that could sustain for years. That was the business Warner Bros. was in. Then I had such a down period in my career. They bet a lot on me, and I could never keep anything on the air. After Scrubs and Cougar Town, I had shows like Ground Floor, Undateable, Surviving Jack — shows that all came and went. The one that broke me was Whiskey Cavalier. That show crashed and burned so quickly that I found myself thinking, “This might be the end of the line for me.” That’s when I decided to try out streaming. So, the one time I felt pressure and weirdness from Warner Bros. was when I couldn’t get anything to catch on for a good chunk of my time here.

Have you heard from David Ellison since the studio accepted his bid?

No, but I don’t think that’s how it works. Both professionally and with friends, I’ll be asked, “What do you think?” And you know what I say? “This is how I’ve always operated in television. I’ve been through the death of the drama, the death of the sitcom. It’s only going to be reality! There’s no more multicams! There’s multicams again!” Six months ago, people were asking me what it was going to be like working at Netflix. It’s the craziest world right now. It’s bananas. And I’m barely three years into a five-year [deal] here. We’ll see.

Looking at the whole of your career, was Whiskey Cavalier the low point or was it that string of short-lived jobs — Friends, The Nanny, Boy Meets World — in your 20s?

I don’t know what’s been the biggest lull. The only thing I can tell you is I’m prepped for the next one. Eventually I’ll do something that doesn’t work or people will decide that this stuff is shitty. It’s just the way the business goes. I’ve been amassing a list of people that have to give me a job when I’m unhireable. I know I’ll get at least a year or two of work from Chris Miller and Phil Lord and a bunch of other people I worked with when they were younger.

As someone who watched Cougar Town, which was not actually a show about Courteney Cox as a woman who dates younger men, the title made it a challenge to recommend. Did it impact the show?

I blew it. I’ve made so many mistakes, but that mistake makes me laugh now. I don’t like it when anybody tries to label the show as anything other than grand success. We made 102 episodes! By the way, we got permission to retitle it at one point — The Sunshine State. Then, just coincidentally, ABC picked up a show that fall called Mr. Sunshine and we stayed Cougar Town. It’s just so weird because after the first six episodes of that show, Courteney Cox’s character is dating Josh Hopkins for the rest of the show.

Your wife, Christa Miller, has starred in Scrubs, Cougar Town and Shrinking. What is the biggest creative debate you’ve had in your collaboration?

I did her a disservice. When I met her, she was already a successful actress. She was lead of The Drew Carey Show. I just knew her as this super acerbic, funny broad that could turn jokes on a dime. Until we got to Shrinking, I didn’t realize how good of an actress she is. She can do things with tremendous weight and drama. I still give myself shit because I would see independent movies she did and it would never dawn on me that I should be having her do that. I think I just love the safety net of, “I know how to make my wife funny.”

Is it true that when you were attached to adapt Fletch in the early aughts, Harvey Weinstein said he wanted you to be “The Quentin of Comedy”?

Yes. It was a very weird time in my life. Literally just because of Zach Braff and Garden State, he came out and hired me to be the director and writer of the new Fletch thing — which he owned only for, like, 10 more months. Our relationship quickly soured. He liked the script, but Zach couldn’t [star in] it. I had a contractual thing where [Weinstein] wasn’t allowed to use my script unless I directed it. I decided to split and go back to Scrubs, but he kept trying to use my script for the movie with other people.

Do you still think about movies?

The weird thing about movies is that I was running Spin City when I was 27. It’s really hard then to go write a movie where you’re like, “Hey, is it like my TV show where I get to cast it, pick the music, tell the director how to block it and make all the tweaks of the script?” You have virtually no control. It’s just not appealing unless I’m going to write and direct it. So, I’ve been hiding from it forever. The only long-term movie [executive] relationship I have is with Pam Abdy, who’s here at Warner Bros.

Writing a movie, to me, feels like gestating a child only to give it up for adoption against your will.

It’s a crazy business. I have friends that have had all this success in it. They’ll be like, “Oh, I had a great year last year. I sold three [scripts] that are great.” Cool! Did they make any of the movies? “Oh no, no, no. They’re not making any of them.” By the way, the one who’s dragged me back to the idea is [Shrinking co-creator] Brett Goldstein. He’s like, “You’ve got to do a movie before your career’s over.” I’ll figure it out. I’ll just be too tempted to do it with the same actors and actresses I always work with. I like that Christopher Guest used to do that.

Are you involved in Ted Lasso at this point?

My company is because it’s such a big undertaking, but no. I have so many other shows in production, but it would be disingenuous of me to not say that that show is Jason [Sudeikis’] vision and voice. He always knew who Ted was from the start.

I am looking at a poster for Bad Monkey, which is billed as “A Bill Lawrence Show.” How do you feel about being a brand — and do you think you have a strong grasp of what that brand is?

I’m flattered that anybody would say, “Oh, Bill Lawrence is doing the show. I want to check it out.” I know if Mike Schur, Armando Iannucci or Sharon Horgan are putting out new shows, I’m going to check them out. I think I know what my voice is, and I would be quick to say, “Yeah, I’m always going to write comedy that has some emotional stakes and hopefully you care about the characters.” If that happens to be a generalization that people want to use, I’m OK with it. It’s an advantage in a time that everybody has nine billion choices of what to watch. But it’s been weird to be a brand. That feels more important to business people than to me.

This story appeared in the June 16 issue of The Hollywood Reporter magazine. Click here to subscribe.