Iz was at my mum’s. She loves it there, and it’s meant to give us a break — a chance to sleep. I also got to spend some time with my boy, which was magical.

Then bedtime rolled around, and even when she’s not here, I can’t sleep. Right now, I just can’t sleep. It’s exhausting. It feeds the anxiety that seems to be everywhere at the moment — impossible to get a handle on, impossible to see the end of.

The world keeps spinning. People carry on being who they are.

But my world has changed. I have changed. And there’s no going back to who I was before this.

I’m scared I’ll never sleep soundly again. And if I’m honest, I don’t even know if I want to. Because sleeping soundly means not worrying about my girl, and as much as I don’t want to worry, part of me feels like that worry is what keeps her safe.

Even writing that sounds self-absorbed.

But it’s not.

It’s not arrogance. It’s not selfishness.

It’s love.

It’s grief.

It’s a desperate attempt to hold onto some sense of control — to feel like I can do something to protect my baby.

And more than anything, it’s normal.

The over-prepared bag packing.

The hyper-vigilance around her meds, her poops, her mood, her tummy.

Sterilising everything — something I only stopped less than a month ago.

All of it is normal.

It’s my nervous system doing what it was designed to do: trying to protect me, and trying to protect my child.

And maybe, for now, that’s enough.