It’s 2:30 in the morning. In three hours, I have to get up and go in for what will probably be an eleven-hour day at work. I haven’t been to sleep yet. I’m stuck somewhere between “in a violent rage” and “on the verge of tears”.
Why can’t I sleep? There’s nothing extraordinary on my mind. I wound down before going to bed. I did everything right, and I’m still wide awake, pondering how the only thing that’s going to suck more than tonight for me will be tomorrow morning. Assuming there’s any sleep buffer at all between the two.
I’ve read. I’ve watched TV. I’ve cuddled with Edgar. I’ve counted sheep and tried the couch and the other bed. I’ve also reminded myself how I once swore I’d never have another job where it was all but impossible to call in sick, but that’s another story entirely.