The clock looks so bright when you can't sleep. And unblinking. Every time you check the time your sense of failure gets worse. Like the other team is running up the score. Then at some pint if it's a really bad night for sleep you acknowledge that it may not happen at all and there's the tiniest sense of panic that without the border between day and night you'll dissolve into dust. 

As a kid I'd have trouble sleeping and sneak down to the kitchen on the carpeted staircase in a house as quiet as death to make elaborate cold cold sandwiches.   I'd butter the bread before toasting it, stuff it with mortadella, cheese and salami and mayo and mustard with a pickle on the side pretending it was from a deli. Then I'd turn on the tiny portable Sylvania set we kept on the kitchen counter and watch the late night movie back when they'd show things like Panic in Needle Park or Husbands joining midstream and feeling my way around the plot until I settled in and reveled at living in my secret little world I had created.