At two a.m. I wake as a three-legged woman (no need to veil your maiden eyes—this will not be obscene). Three kneecaps are impossible to arrange comfortably, three ankles threaten to bend at odd angles, and all three feet find the bedclothes intolerable. Any stretching or writhing invites excruciating cramping—nothing works. No sleep resumes.

When did this begin? I’m certain that Baby Constance enjoyed the correct number of stumpy legs and arms attached to a solid little torso, and they never interfered with her comfort. As a young woman, I was never three-legged—nothing bothered me in that direction (except for affairs of the heart or constant destitution, little bothered me, full stop). Whenever it began, I fear it’s here to stay. I am coming to accept that from two to five a.m., I will be fitfully awake and uncomfortable—a three-legged woman.

I should get up and read, or better, write, during those hours, but I’ve never been able to leave a warm bed for a chilly chair in the living room or chillier, my desk upstairs. So what to do?

Three legs and their inherent discomfort set me on a three-legged path mentally: I wonder, I worry, I think-write as the bedside clock crawls toward daybreak.

I wonder about things large and small. I wonder if I’ll see the bobcat strolling down the driveway this fall, as I did last year. I wonder about the Chinese lady who calls from myriad phone numbers and leaves messages. I’ve read that she represents a scam, purporting to be the Chinese Embassy, warning of expired visas and no doubt discussing the cash payment to revive them. I wonder whether Trump will be reelected, which leads me to the next phase.

Wide-ranging worry sets in, impossible as it is to see the bright side during the wee hours. Climate change is feast for a three-legged woman’s worry, and while hard to see in the beautiful place in which we live, it’s evident in Siberia, where the permafrost has melted, towns have vanished into middle earth, and flooded rivers remove all trace. Climate change(d) is obvious too in Greenland, where the loss of ice means loss of hunting for humans and polar bears, now starving. Unbearable lists of vanishing animal and plant species cause pain even in broad daylight.

I worry about the tattered state of the nation and the world, reliving the vicious and mendacious statements and actions of the so-called leaders. The children incarcerated at our border, Syria, Trump, the Kurds. Worrying about my health and our future are top on the list, although knock-on-wood, I’m fine, we’re both fine. I tell myself and my three legs that these are two a.m. thoughts, nothing more, but at least I don’t worry about anything trivial.

I think-write, which is not at all actually writing, not slogging through words on a page, but it can result in some planning for writing. I’ve extricated plots and characters from stuck mode more than once between two and four a.m. Likewise, new characters and new plots have come to me, as have words and names to use, and pictures to paint in my fiction. It’s a good use of time not asleep, and as long as I can keep the worrying to a minimum and the think-writing to a maximum, I won’t keep myself awake with the resentment that insomnia brings.

Eventually, long before autumnal dawn’s twilight, I fall peacefully asleep and wake refreshed before dawn, two legs restored—there, that wasn’t so bad.