My husband rolls out of bed gingerly to avoid waking me up.

My eyes spring open and my mouth says “Where are you going?” before my brain knows what just happened.

“I just can’t sleep with your snoring. I’m sorry.”

Did I mention my anxiety is hyperactive at the moment?

I’m now awake, and while I furiously google all the possible cures for snoring, my brain kicks into a dialogue.

“If you don’t do something, he’ll leave you.”

Me: “What? No. Don’t be ridiculous!”

Anxiety: “Wouldn’t you? Look at him! He’s exhausted. And he’s exhausted because of YOUR snoring. He’s exSnoreSted!”

Me: “But it’s not my fault! I’ve done everything I can!”

Anxiety: ” Have you?”

Me: “Yes. You know I have. And now I need an ENT specialist.”

Anxiety: “Ooh, sounds expensive. Hey, aren’t you about to take a pay cut? How will you afford that?”

Me: ” Don’t start this shit. It’ll be fine!”

Anxiety: “And what if they need to do surgery? You know they don’t like taking tonsils out of adults for a reason.”

Me: “Is it because the chances of bleeding out are higher?”

Anxiety: ” You DO listen to me! Oh, my little girl is growing up. I’m so proud!”

Me: “I’ve found an ENT, I’ll call them tomorrow. It’s 230am. Goodnight, arsehole.”

Anxiety: “Hey, you know what else can go wrong in hospitals?”

Me: “Screw you, I’m going to sleep.”

Anxiety: “You know he can hear you from the lounge room.”

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