What the fuck else am I meant to do at 4.30am?

It begins, like most things, with an action.
However the action goes unnoticed.
All that is noticed is the sound.
The sharp piercing shrill that rings and echoes through the eardrum.
Like long, lanky fingernails being drawn down a blackboard, etching lines into the material that will be there forever, no matter how many attempts are made to cover it up.
The sound came from nowhere and as suddenly as it began it stops.
Something has changed, but exactly what remains unclear.
The hairs on the back of necks all around are stood up.
Fear is present.
Inner and outer.
Seen and unseen.
Panic sets in.
The staccatto beat of a quickening heart is the only sound filling an otherwise silent room.
The accoustics make each beat seem like a giant footstep, booming away, following endlessly.
Nothing happens.
The mind wanders.
The fear has set in and the worst is given thought.
Thought makes it reality.
If it can be thought of, it can happen.
Mental torment given physical flesh.
A shadow moves in the corner of an eye.
The fire of fear is stoked.
The reality is irrelevant.
Whatever the actual thing was has taken second stage to what it could have been.
To what it is in the dark recesses of your mind.
That space locked away from childhood.
'The bad place.'
You're not a child anymore.
These things shouldn't still haunt you.
But they do.
And you have no-one else to blame.
As you lie there, your heart pounds.
Everything goes through your mind at once.
Every possible thought, every possible outcome.
Everything happens so fast that you can't make sense of it.
Your head starts spinning.
You notice sweat dripping from your forehead.
Drops of water falling to the floor in slow motion, each drop impacting with what seems like the force of a sonic boom.
And then everything is still.
Everything slows down.
The franticness ceases, one thought at a time.
Your heartbeat returns to normal.
You wipe your brow and sit, peacefully.
The alarm clock sounds again and everything makes sense.