Insomnia, Annotated

Written by: Epikurus

March 5, 2026 — 01:34 AM

My brain—and by unfortunate extension, the rest of this meat vehicle I pilot—is trained to run threat assessments pretty much 24/7. There’s a setting I slip into that I call Incident Command Mode, and occasionally my mind just… forgets to read the memo that says you can stand down now, champ.

I’ve seen enough worst-case scenarios—personally and professionally—that my senses default to an endless background process:

Okay, quick systems check… and again… and again… and again…

Hypervigilance is a weird little superpower with a cursed side effect. It sharpens your awareness, sure. But it also installs an alarm system that never fully powers down. It just idles there, humming ominously like a refrigerator possessed by anxiety.

Most of the time I keep the running commentary to myself. I know how exhausting it would be if I narrated every contingency out loud.

“Just a heads up, if that ceiling fan detaches at 2,000 RPM I’ll dive left, you roll right—”

Yeah. No one wants that.

So, the calculations stay internal. Quiet. Continuous. Like some deranged little background program my brain refuses to close. Task Manager says it’s using 94% of system resources but apparently, it’s a critical process and shutting it down might cause the whole operating system to blue-screen.

Still, every now and then—rarely, but necessarily—I have to physically reach into my own head and flip the OFF switch.

Not because the world has suddenly become safe. I’m not that naïve.

But because if I don’t, the surveillance drone that is my consciousness will just keep circling forever until it runs out of fuel and crashes directly into my sanity.

Usually this moment happens at home, when I’m trying to ground myself. I don’t pretend home is magically immune to chaos. Bad things can happen anywhere. Lightning strikes. Pipes burst. The universe throws dice.

Grounding isn’t pretending risk doesn’t exist.

It’s acknowledging the present moment without letting the apocalypse department run the meeting.

So, I do a quick internal status check:

I’m okay.

There’s no danger here. Nothing is happening. Right now, in this exact second, things are okay.

When that message finally lands, my body loosens its death grip on reality. Shoulders drop a few inches. My breathing remembers it’s supposed to be slow and not the respiratory equivalent of a tactical sprint. The radar sweep in my head softens.

Not gone.

Just… quieter.

The pause is deliberate. A tiny, negotiated ceasefire between me and my own nervous system.

A brief, fragile détente with the paranoid raccoon operating the threat-analysis center of my brain.