Delayed

The hour may be late, and yet I know
That there are more important things than sleep;
Yet I can't have them. Pacing to and fro
Inside my mind, I try so hard to keep
My brain from self-combustion, but alas
It seems too bent on wearing itself out.
I cannot bid it let my troubles pass,
Nor leave off foolish quantities of doubt:
It will, despite me, think of missing you
And how that missing translates into pain
Which undermines the better things I do
Making it impossible to gain
Traction on my troubles. Yet know this:
Compared to other options, this is bliss.