Fear of the Unknown

As I lie awake at 4:02 a.m., 6th night in a row, I try to psychoanalyze the situation and ask myself, what is it that is keeping me up when everything around me is resting; why when I look into the small opening of a cupboard not fully closed, do I feel a creep rise up my neck; why do I prepare a script for the next day’s, to be or not to be, events; why does the blackness give me jitters when I look out the window at night; why is it so frustratingly difficult to turn off the mental dictation I give myself for each situation that I could/will/may be in the next day; why, the tiniest sound, of the rustling of the feathers of the pigeons that sleep in my balcony, of the lizard chirping, of the animals unsettling, of the plastic crumbling, make my skin taut; why do I play my part in an anticipated argument over and over again; why do I sleep better when the sun comes up; am I just an insomniac or something else, that is the question.

And as I am about to delve into my musings for the 226th time, it suddenly hits me. Isn’t insomnia just a fear of the unknown?