What Getting Something Stuck in My Eye Taught Me About Anxiety, Insomnia, and the Sleep Struggle

Last night, something got into my eye.

It sounds small. Minor. Almost insignificant. But in the moment, it felt anything but.

At first, it was just uncomfortable. That scratchy, irritating feeling that something is there and shouldn’t be. Naturally, I did what most of us would do: I started rubbing it, trying to get it out.

Just a quick rub, I thought.

But instead of helping, it got worse.

Within seconds, the irritation turned into real pain. Sharp. Burning. My eye started tearing, turning red, and suddenly I was rubbing harder, more desperately, trying to fix it.

And that’s when the panic started.

My mind moved faster than my body.

What if it’s stuck? What if I scratched my eye? What if I can’t get it out? What if I made it worse?

The fear escalated quickly.

I ran to the sink and splashed water into my eye. Nothing. I shut my eye tightly, hoping maybe it would settle. Nothing. I grabbed a towel and gently rubbed again. Still nothing.

Every attempt to “fix” it made me more agitated. The pain felt bigger. The thoughts got louder. And what struck me most afterward was how quickly it all spiraled.

Ten minutes earlier, I had been completely fine. And now I felt helpless. Overwhelmed. On the verge of tears.

It wasn’t just the pain anymore. It was the feeling of not knowing what to do. The uncertainty. The loss of control.

That feeling, that is often what breaks us open.

Not the discomfort itself, but the fear of it. The resistance to it. The desperate need for it to stop.

And as I stood there, rubbing and panicking, I could feel my whole body tightening.

My shoulders were tense.

My breathing was shallow.

My heart was racing.

My nervous system had gone into full alarm.

And when your nervous system is in alarm, everything feels bigger. Pain feels sharper. Fear feels louder. Solutions feel farther away. It’s hard to think clearly when your body believes you’re in danger.

Eventually, when I was truly at the end of myself, I stopped. Not because I wanted to. Because I had no choice.

I sat down, closed my eyes, and breathed slowly. Deeply.

At first, my mind was still racing. I could still feel the discomfort. I still wanted to jump up and fix it.

But instead, I started talking to myself.

You are okay. You are not dying. You will be able to see. This will pass. It might hurt right now, but it will not last forever. You can handle this.

And little by little, something shifted.

My breathing slowed. My shoulders softened. My body started coming down from the panic.

The pain was still there, but it no longer felt catastrophic.

It was simply uncomfortable.

And discomfort is very different from danger.

That distinction matters.

After a few minutes of sitting there, eyes closed, allowing the moment instead of fighting it, the pain began to ease. And shortly after that, whatever had been in my eye came out.

Just like that.

Gone.

What fascinated me afterward was not just that it came out. It was how much worse I had made the experience by fighting it.

My panic amplified everything. My fear convinced me something terrible was happening. My urgency made me more aggressive, more desperate, more reactive.

And all of it made the pain feel bigger than it actually was.

Sound familiar?

This is what happens in sleep all the time.

You wake up at 2:00 a.m.

At first, it’s neutral. You’re simply awake.

But within seconds, the mind begins:

Why am I awake?

What if I don’t fall back asleep?

How exhausted will I be tomorrow?

What if this ruins my day?

What if this keeps happening?

And suddenly, what started as a normal waking becomes a full-body event.

Your heart races. Your mind speeds up. Your body tenses. Your nervous system goes into alarm.

And now it isn’t just wakefulness.

It’s fear. It’s resistance. It’s struggle.

This is the part so many people miss.

Being awake isn’t always the problem.

The struggle against being awake often becomes the bigger problem.

Just like with my eye.

The rubbing. The panic. The desperate need to fix it immediately.

It only made everything worse.

Sleep works the same way.

The harder we force, chase, or fight for it, the further away it often feels.

But the moment we stop battling the moment, the moment we soften, the moment we say:

It’s okay. I’m safe. My body knows how to sleep. I can be awake right now and still be okay.

That is when the nervous system begins to settle.

And when the nervous system settles, sleep has room to return.

This doesn’t mean discomfort disappears immediately. It doesn’t mean wakefulness feels pleasant. But it does mean we stop adding fear to it.

And that changes everything.

Sometimes the real work of sleep is not learning how to sleep.

It’s learning how to be awake without panic.

Because often, it is not the waking that keeps us stuck.

It’s the fight.

So I’ll leave you with this:

How often do we make the struggle bigger simply because we are fighting so hard against it?

If you can relate to this, if you find yourself catastrophizing at night, feeling terrified of being awake, struggling with sleep, unable to calm your mind down, and desperately chasing something that feels like it is slipping further and further away, maybe it is time to stop fighting this alone.

Sleep is not always about trying harder.

Sometimes, it is about learning how to calm the fear, regulate the nervous system, and create safety in the very moments that feel overwhelming.

If this sounds like you, reach out. https://calendly.com/chevymermelstein/30min

Let’s talk.

Want to learn more about sleep anxiety? https://www.chevymermelsteinsleepcoach.org/post/sleep-anxiety-when-your-internal-fire-alarm-won-t-turn-off