I had gone to bed a bit before midnight. I awoke later and recognized I was awake. Consciousness welled up, and I was a long way from returning to sleep. I thought about the feeling of the night's quiet, the particular weight of the darkness. Was it more likely 3:30 or 4:30 a.m.? The latter would be just fine--I know this amount of sleep, and know that it is enough to sustain me. I massaged the feeling of the dark, rubbed it. It felt like 3:30. I turned and looked at the clock and the clock proved me right. 3:28 a.m.
Three-and-a-half hours of sleep is a scary number for me. I know I won't be at my best when the morning's light dawns. I will make mistakes that I wouldn't otherwise. I can function, for I feel the fear of lack of sleep in a far different way from long-ago me who suffered so, but the fear is there, and it is partly justified.
I knew the waking was likely when I went to bed. The night had that feeling. When I went to sleep, I could feel that sense of far too much to do and far too little time to do it in. I knew, but am so far powerless to prevent, that the expectation of wakefulness might lead to wakefulness. It's like some devil, friendly in its way, happily accepting the invitation to return as I call it by name in the dark of night. I am flawed, devil. Torture me.