Now I'm struggling against a cycle in which I'm terrified not to sleep, so I watch myself trying, so I don't sleep, etc.
But honestly I think this began as dread of the kind of busy I've been for the past few years, then busy in which there is no mental space to write or think, and in which I react to any interruption or thieving of my time with the viciousness of a cornered ferret. (Why are vicious and viscous so close in spelling? It's like a booby trap for tired writers.)
In heading back to my speech job, plus another child, I worry I'm headed there again, and it appears to have tipped me over a particularly nasty edge.
Nevertheless, life goes on.