In answer to your question, I went through the carpentry apprentice program when I was a young man in Las Vegas, NV where I grew up. I worked as a carpenter in the commercial construction field for some years, and put myself through college doing custom joinery and cabinets on the side. My father was trained as a cabinetmaker, and he taught me a lot about tools and cabinetwork and workmanlike attitudes. I did several mini-apprenticeships in Joinery and carpentry when I was a student and later working in Japan in the construction industry. I completed a formal training course in Kumikozaiku, that is, patterned interlocking latticework used for shoji and ramma in traditional Japanese architecture.
I have worked as an independent carpenter and joiner several times. And I have been picking the brains of skilled craftsmen, and having them critique my work, and teach me better methods, for a long time. I work in the Japanese construction industry again now, and occasionally have the chance to discuss tools and woodworking methods with talented finish craftsmen. And I hang out with blacksmiths as time permits.
You can see that my training and focus has been skewed heavily towards professional, no nonsense, get the job done right, and right now dammit, type work. The people I learned from did not tolerate errors, naval-gazing, or amateurs. They did not consider skill with tools alone to be sufficient for a man to call himself a craftsman. High quality, speed, deftness, and volume were mandatory. And he must work so that the customer or employer can discern that speed, skill, and deftness in concrete results. Therefore, no sharpening or tool maintenance in front of the customer, no hesitation in layout, no fiddling with tools, no admiring one's work, no redoing, measure once cut once.
On this forum, I have been criticized for this attitude by those that see tool sharpening and maintenance as part of the job (which it is, but it is not the purpose of the job, and should not delay or interfere with the job) and something that must be done when it must be done (true, when you fail to prepare). They learned from different masters, or were perhaps self-taught. Most of these are hobbyists woodworkers (which I am now), that have never had to feed their wife and babies and pay rent using their woodworking tools. Most have not gone through the process of soliciting work, designing, bidding, hiring, training, contracting, procuring, and then working the wood to a strict schedule, but are blessed with the means to enjoy woodworking as a satisfying avocation with few pressures. Nothing wrong with that, but I have different expectations.
I am uncomfortable unless I always have an extra plane ready to go when my primary tool's blade becomes dull, chipped, or the plane gets out of fettle. Likewise for chisels. This is not always possible in the professional world for space and weight reasons, but I believe it wise were possible. This also means that one's tools must be high quality (not the same as expensive or flashy), especially since they are a reflection of their owner.
My opinions about sharpening induce vapours in the sandpaper and diamond plate crowd. Sharpening stone retailers despise me.
My standards for precision are different than most on this forum, I suspect. I believe it silly to insist that the ideal way to cut a tenon, for instance, is to saw with a setback from the layout line, and then pare to the line with a chisel. This method, taught by some scribblers, is a crutch that stunts the development of essential, basic skills. The cut with the saw should be right on the line first time every time, and if a man can't do that, then he needs to practice until he can. That's the way I was taught, and I am grateful for it. Nothing wrong with the hobbyist without professional obligations or pressure using such methods, but I have problems with those that insist it is the "best way," when they will not make an effort to do better. Such opinions expressed wound the pride of some, instead of motivating them to improve their skills. Such is life.
Stan