At some point I learned that without significant pain to weigh me down, my struggle to rise was weak. My anxiety would sit on my chest for days and pick away at particles of sleep, making midnight til dawn a menagerie of dreamstuff, cut with an abrupt, sweat-soaked awakening. I would imagine bugs darting across my legs like cars on an open freeway, white rental walls crumbling around me, black mold dusting my lungs toxically. There was something about 2:48 am that would creep up on me like a summer storm. Quick, merciless, forceful - but over by daylight.
I worry about the night, or the night makes me worry.