Don't Feed the Bear

I often get insomnia. And when I do, I lie in bed fretting, fussing, and being anxious. Things that never concern me during the day are suddenly overwhelming. It’s like being harassed by one of those spoiled Yosemite bears, lurking in the woods just after dusk, waiting for the chance to dart in and grab something off of the table. I can hear the bear out there, and can just barely make out its form. The bear often darts in to grab the garbage bag—you know—those throw-away thoughts and mutterings that tend to pile up on the corner of the bench, and never really seem to go away. He’ll run off with that refuse, and I’ll hear him chewing on it, and then he’ll be back for more, or maybe it’s his friend that wants to eat now.
I’m being harassed because there’s stuff the bear wants to eat. I begin to relax, watch my breath, and disengage: The bear fades away. There’s nothing here to eat anymore.
I need that bear: He’s my animal strength and instincts. He’s a part of me. I just need to keep him foraging, and not leave anything out that’ll make him dangerous.