Sunday nights have become a struggle, you couldn't say you sleep like a baby. Monday mornings feel a little like you've had one too many glasses with dinner, except of course you didn't. There's even a need for an extra coffee, strong and thick midway through the day.
It wasn't a big deal and you've laughed off the "You had a good weekend" comments and smirks.
And now there's the realisation that it isn't just a Sunday but a Tuesday and if you're pushed, and you just did, it's a Thursday too.
One night on and one off, you cope, that's what you do.
Except that it's harder to stay in control of things that normally are a default setting, now that the tide of emotion rises and falls like the Severn and the shore looks bare. It's not a pretty picture, lots of thick, claggy mud, the kind that clings to boots, that sucks down, holding on to you.
If you were there, you imagine what that would smell like. That's such a vivid thought, you wander the house checking places that this awful smell might be coming from.
That's more than just a lack of sleep.
So here you are, doing what everyone said not to, on a screen, at zero dark thirty in the morning, scrolling away looking for an answer that isn't written for you.
The hygiene is good, the blackout curtains fitted weeks ago, a magnesium something or other when it feels like the night will be lost. The house gone quiet an hour before bed and the lamps switched on with those expensive bulbs you saw online.
Yet there is still no peace, still no relief from waking so early that it is indecent, and all you have in return is the promise of a foggy, clawing day that drains your reserves and robs you of clarity of thought.
If this is more than a lack of sleep, is it sleep and something else? A little anxiety, a touch of stress, a tendency to head towards depression. Could it be a bit of two, or all three, a cruel mix to deny you that feeling you define as yours.
You book the appointment and your GP checks you over, no offer of a script unless it gets worse, and you stop yourself from saying how bad does this have to be. It took a lot to wrestle that bit of emotional control and they saw it too, so "Take a look at the Talk Therapy pages, do you know you can self-refer." Is what you heard next.
Later it dawns on you, just what your GP said when they mentioned Talk Therapy. This isn't just a lack of sleep thing, this is sleep and something else, and there's a therapy for that.
You smile, shut down the screen and machine, switch those lights off and head back to bed.
The last thing you hear, after your head hits the pillow, is this:
Good night, sleep well.