Chronic insomnia is one of the Sunday night rituals. All the rest of the week the pillows on my bed are cosy and friendly. On Sunday nights I might as well be trying to doss down on a granite breakwater.
This morning, at a quarter to four, I woke up with a start from a dream about having a panic attack at work, only to discover that I was starting to have a panic attack about work. I don't know why. It's not as if it's any worse than usual. It's been awful in the past. Every evidence suggests that it's going to be awful in the future. But at the moment it's just mightily irritating, endlessly dispiriting and intolerably wearisome. There's no good reason for my getting worked up about it.