Anything but sleep. 
It gives me nightmares.

Nightmares cause me to check the closet and underbed for monsters.
This, of course, proves to be an exercise in futility as the damn demons smell of chamomile and sound like lullabies. 
I stave them off with the fortitude of a pillowfight until a soft tuck in kiss on the forehead clicks the lightbulb pullcord.
Heavy lids slowly lower, disloyal drawbridges manned by a subconscious 
that knows better.