I seem to have conquered the insomnia, for which relief much thanks. Someone suggested I might be hungry, which seemed an absurd idea, til I tried eating dinner very slightly later, and drinking some hot milk before bed, and then it was suddenly seven a.m. and I'd not woken once and all that day my synapses snapped and sang with delight at not having my thoughts mediated through a fog of dull exhaustion.
I am very much hoping I shall stay sleeping soundly from now on, and plan to read this wonderful Fleur Adcock poem every night in bed as a talisman to ward off further bouts of insomnia.
There are worse things than having behaved foolishly in public.
There are worse things than these miniature betrayals,
committed or endured or suspected; there are worse things
than not being able to sleep for thinking about them.
It is 5 a.m. All the worse things come stalking in
and stand icily about the bed looking worse and worse