Nighttime. That mysterious stretch of hours where the world decides to dim the lights, crank up the quiet, and let your brain throw a rager with all your worst-case scenarios and existential crises. I’m too young for sundowners—or so I like to think—but there are moments when nighttime feels like a particularly well-lit horror movie set.

Take tonight, for example. Insomnia decided to RSVP to the party, dragging along my good buddy, arrhythmia. (Seriously, arrhythmia, aren’t you bored of hanging out with me by now?) All I want is a deep, restorative sleep—the kind that feels like hitting the snooze button on life. Instead, I’m lying here, wide awake, listening to the symphony of nighttime sounds around me.

Let me set the scene for you.

The refrigerator is humming, probably plotting something. The icemaker occasionally drops a chunk of ice with the subtlety of a cymbal crash in a funeral home. My cats? They’ve gone full Zumiez mode, tearing through the house like they’re late for a feline rave. The squirrels in the attic (at least, I hope they’re squirrels) are having their own version of Cirque du Soleil. Somewhere in the distance, traffic hums like a lullaby for insomniacs.

And then there’s my heart. Oh, my precious, overachieving heart. I can feel it thumping, loud and proud, like it’s auditioning for the lead role in Stomp. Every beat seems to echo in my eardrums. Combine that with the gentle whoosh of the fan, and I’m basically living in a sensory deprivation chamber where all the sounds you don’t want to hear are front and center.

When I was a kid, nighttime was scary for different reasons. Back then, I was convinced the darkness was full of ghosts, goblins, and other paranormal nasties. If I so much as peeked out from under my blanket, I was sure to be met with the glowing eyes of a monster ready to drag me under the bed. Now? The monsters have traded in their fangs for a more sophisticated attack: relentless memories from 1973 onward. It’s like my brain has decided that 3 a.m. is the perfect time to host a mental documentary about my most awkward moments.

And yet, you’d think I’d learn. You’d think, given how much nighttime messes with me, that I’d start going to bed early like a responsible adult. Nope. Not me. My body has decided that the golden hours for sleep are from 4 a.m. to 9 a.m., and honestly, I don’t even argue anymore. Some people are morning people, like my dad was, bouncing out of bed at sunrise with boundless energy. Me? I’m a nocturnal thinker, a midnight overanalyzer, and, unfortunately, a squirrel-listener.

To be clear, I know this arrhythmia isn’t going to kill me. But damn, it sure feels like running a marathon I never signed up for. I’m tired. Really tired. I just want to lie on my side, drift off, and wake up feeling like I’ve been recharged by the gods of REM sleep.

Until then, I’ll be here. Listening to the refrigerator. Watching the cats zoom. Hoping the squirrels don’t unionize. And reminding myself that nighttime, as scary as it can sometimes be, is also full of strange, ridiculous beauty.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to try to convince my brain that 1973 can wait until morning.