Sunday night insomnia was my brain loading Monday

Sunday, 11pm: in bed, lights off, genuinely tired. Sunday, 1am: fully awake, chairing a mental board meeting about a Tuesday conversation that had not happened yet.

This ran for years. I tried earlier nights, sleep apps, the whole pharmacy of good intentions. The insomnia ignored all of it, because it was never a sleep problem.

My record was 3:40am, rehearsing an answer to a question nobody ended up asking that week.

The loop always had the same agenda: unfinished things, undefined things, and conversations I was rehearsing like a lawyer before trial. My brain was not malfunctioning at 1am. It was doing its job — preparing for a week it had no information about, at the worst possible hour.

Sunday insomnia was my brain pre-loading Monday because Friday never handed over the files.

• Open loops from last week, still unnamed.
• Monday's first task, a complete mystery.
• Every hard conversation, rehearsed in twelve imaginary versions.

The fix was not in the bedroom. It was ten minutes on Friday afternoon: every open loop written down with its next move, and Monday's first task named as a physical action and left somewhere I would trip over it.

I do it before I shut the laptop, never after dinner. After dinner the week no longer exists, and my brain knows it.

That is it. No journaling practice, no Sunday planning marathon. The brain dumps at 1am whatever you refused to dump at 4pm on Friday.

The first Friday I did the handover, that Sunday night I lay there waiting for the meeting to start and it just didn't. My brain had the files. There was nothing left to rehearse.

It still happens when I skip the Friday close, which is almost useful — the insomnia is now a receipt telling me exactly what I forgot to do. Sundays are mine again, mostly, and mostly is plenty.