A letter

I'm afraid to lay down next to you at night.
I don't want to disturb your peaceful rest. You lay so still, you hardly move. This is who you really are, and I'm afraid you'll see who I really am.
I am not peaceful, I'm fully of worry and regret. It keeps me up all hours of the night. I have to distract myself. I read until I'm exhausted enough to sleep. If I didn't then I would just lay there thinking. And we know what happens to me when I think.
I worry.
I have a big imagination, but I only seem to imagine the worst things that could happen. I have a shoty memory, and I only seem to remember the worst things I've done. Everything is fine now, but I always seem to worry about everything that could go wrong. Everything that I could do wrong. Everything that I will do wrong.
I lay for hours, and my thoughts make it even longer. And when I finally drift off...I sleep fitfully. I tumble through sleep haphazardly. I disturb you. I can feel it. And it tears me up to see you wake before you're ready.
Then I wake up.
Hours before you do. You're comfortable and content. I'm afraid of rolling into you. I get up so as to not worry about trying to fall asleep again, I don't have it in me to put you through that twice a night.
When you get up, you're rested and beautiful.
I feel worse. I dread the long day, and tonight...tonight we'll do it all again.