and then I laughed and thought of Rumi

Wine and poetry must be
the only cures for what ails me:
the fears that dog at my heels
and slap at my hands like hateful children,
and laugh through the thin walls of sleep
in the center of the night,
unneighborlike.
When one cannot shut one’s eyes
and feel all right, intoxication
becomes the last -- the best --
the only
bastion of self-defense.