You spend four minutes finding the perfect pillow arrangement, your body finally stops aching, the temperature is flawless—and then your brain goes "btw your phone is literally on the desk." Now you have to choose between getting up like some kind of medieval peasant without electricity, or lying there in perfect comfort while your anxiety slowly calcifies into a stalactite.

You spend twenty minutes arranging pillows into a perfect nest, pull the duvet up to your chin, achieve that exact temperature where your body stops shivering, and then remember your phone is in the kitchen. So you lie there, fully aware it's currently at 47%, doing the math on whether you can make it until morning or if you'll die. You can't. You get up.