Sleepless nights. Try to remind myself,
That medieval peasants had first sleep
And second sleep. In between, a period
Of restful wakefulness. Hard to lie awake,
And not allow the worry ants to scurry
Around, scrambling through my thoughts.
Hard to breathe deeply and rest. Always,
At three and four am, the sense of
A world crashing down, and no safe haven.
Scurry. Worry. Here come those ants.
All along just waiting to climb in your pants.
Worrying. Scurrying. Here and there.
Never a quiet second to despair.