Consternation

consternation \kon-ster-NEY-shuhn\, noun:
sudden dread or paralyzing terror

She hadn't slept in days. Afraid of her dreams. The back of her eyelids. The things she knew crept about when her eyes were closed. Mostly it was the night. She hadn't been afraid of the dark since the days she begged her mom to put a nightlight in the hallway. Hadn't even noticed when she grew out of the need for a small light outside her door. Somewhere along the way it wasn't important anymore. Until suddenly as a grown woman the night held something sinister for her again. Closing her eyes in bed now she immediately began to feel the hot tentacles of anxiety creep along the outlines of her arms and where the sheets grazed her skin. Soon her whole body would be like a pile of stone coals smoldering in the heat of an oven. And she'd shut her eyes tighter until speckles of light would form and collect like galaxies, spinning out into oblivion. Fearing the worst, she'd pop them open again, momentarily blinded by the brightness of the optical illusion that had formed. She'd blink and blink and blink until the darkness was whole again, and she could go back to the fear she was used to, the fear that had a name.