Charlie does not sleep well that night. I try to tell myself it’s only a bad dream, but I’m worried that it’s my anxiety rubbing off on him. In the small hours he calls out for me, waking me from some strange, convoluted dream of my own. When I go in to him, he is tense and sweaty, his muscles tight, like knotted ropes, his pyjamas sticking to his skin. The corners of his eyes are crusted with tears.

I sit him up and find him a clean pair of pyjamas. His breath comes in shaky gulps. The fear from the bad dream has sent his body into shivers. He never tells me what these dreams are about. It’s as if they escape from him the moment he wakes up, and he’s left with nothing but the emotion, in an unarticulated knot. For a while he’s rigid when I try to hold him, as if I’ve become part of his fears too. And then gradually he’ll relax, go limp against me. Eventually he’ll be ready to lie back down.

I slip the clean nightshirt over his head and help him pull up the clean pyjama bottoms. His breathing has slowed now. He is becoming sleepy again.

He settles back down into the bed and I smooth the pillow beneath his head. I lean down until my cheek is touching his cool forehead, my heart surging in my chest, my love for him swelling the blood in my veins. I sit with him until I am sure he has fallen asleep again.

Back in my own room, I dig the crumpled sheets of paper out of the little nightstand by my bed. I haven’t looked at these in ages, but I really should have. Some of what’s on here I’ve forgotten entirely. No wonder my thoughts have been running away from me again.

I smooth the papers out on the mattress of my bed. These notes that the psychologist made for me. I make myself read through every word on the pages, until I am sure of myself again. Until I feel strong.

I remind myself that this was how the problems last year began, a stupid mess of my own making. There was that TV programme I watched that put all those anxious ideas in my head, and then I had a few bad nights’ sleep, couldn’t seem to keep a hold on myself. I have to be on the ball now for early warning signs.

Stress can be a trigger.