I assume it’s the early hours. I don’t open my eyes to check but measure it from the darkness in our not-quite subterranean bedroom and Andy’s deep, heavy breathing. Lying on his front, head resting on folded arms, his pointy right elbow dangerously close to crossing the midpoint, threatening to connect with my head.

My breath catches and I move. From lying on my back, a pillow under my head, another under my knees, I move onto my side. I feel a knot in my stomach and my brain flickers back to the memory of the deep sleep of the previous two nights. A barely there frustration, knowing that I can, when my body, brain and heart synchronise – still sleep a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

My increasingly attention seeking thoughts begin to roll around inside me. A marble rolling round a tilting bowl. It hits the base and I catch my breath. A barely-there panic flickers. My brain quickly tells me to take a breath. One single breath from deep in my belly and I feel the marble shift – a little.

Why am I panicking? I remember the panic attacks of 10 years earlier and recognise the same feeling. Rapid breaths. Rapid pulse. Why now? I force myself to use my rational brain to shutdown these thoughts and resent it. I resent having to use precious energy doing this when all I want is sleep .

I think about the next day, where I suspect this worry started. The work I’m due to hand in, taking up more headspace than it deserves but is this really the seed of my anxiety? And no, it’s not just this piece of work, but the next one, the one after that, the next call, the next item on the ever-increasingly demanding to do list. The feeling of never quite having enough time. Time running out. And the ever-present, persistent worry that I’ll be found out to be wanting, not good enough. A worry I work hard to keep to a quiet murmur but that stubbornly refuses to remain quiet.

I lie in bed, eyes closed. Brain and heart awake. And I know what I need to do. But first thank Emma, the psychologist at Maggie’s who taught me how to do this. How to get back to sleep. I hear her gentle voice leading me, reassuring me that I can do it.

And I summon the picture. A seven-year-old Saskia in raspberry pink chords, one foot lifted in the air as she scoots off into the distance. The sun and dappled shade of the trees lining the woodland path a halo around her blond, bobbed hair. Alum Chine, the solid, dependable support act to the showy main event at the end of the path. The beach. Our sanctuary. A snapshot of a simple Sunday afternoon.

And I’m gone.