It’s old and familiar and disappointing and just as scary as ever.

Pacing around my room like a caged animal. Realising that’s stupid and getting into bed, only to lie, eyes wide open, tapping tuneless rhythms on the wall with shaking hands. Tingling skin, almost goosebumps, but not cold, lit by an unknowable heat, an almost-fever, coursing through my veins.

I can’t switch off my brain, and my thoughts are full of hanging. I’m not suicidal. Just preoccupied and agitated and I can’t find rest anywhere.

I have to get up for work in a few hours.

Come on, Laura. Sort your life out. Get a fucking grip.