Insomnia: Anxiety of Restlessness and Sleep Deprivation

It is too late to think clearly, but it must be done.
The body, clenched and muscular, resists itself,
tangled in the blue linen of my bed; it moans,
ludicrously mummified. My pillow is doubled
and doubled, balled into a lump in attempts
to slant the head at yet another painful angle.
The pillowcase wraps, like a limp snake,
around my neck for just the right amount of choking.

There is nothing to do but wait, to let the anxious
thoughts steamroll through the battered canvases
of each approaching dream. Sure, I'll laugh
about it later, like any awkward memory.
I might recall my shaking hands and how the world
thrummed into my skull, or with a little flair
for the poetic, tell you how each time I pressed
my palms against the black globes of my eyes
starbursts erupted through my irises like the unfolding
of purple flowers. It will seem so alien then, in a few days.

but, simply, I am sweating like a beast; my own breath
is humid and suffocating. The need for sleep is stifling,
and the logical chunk of my brain, what little of it's left,
is telling me, his voice meshing with the gurring sound
of trash trucks kachunking the demonic metal
of dumpsters outside my bedroom window: it's four-thirty;
it must be done, you must need to reset. The little voice,
buzzing critic and advisor on necessities of silence,
doesn't realize this need is what keeps me from it--
the transient regeneration, the soothing Nile-istic waters,
swimming in its same river, never having to step twice,
tree roots intertwined through stone dreams of--
"Put your images away, it's time to go to work."