Sleep that isn't sleep is like life that isn't life. We've all been there, some more than others, sleeping then waking without it feeling like we've slept at all.
As we age, the older we are, we may come to realize that sleep is the true paradise, the best of all possible worlds, a place both mortal and immortal, and that there's really no such thing as 'dying in ones sleep,' though people do it all the time.
I don't want to live like I'm trying to remember everything and feel obliged to make a record of it, I really don't. I don't want to disturb the world by using too many words; I'd much rather disturb the world by using too few, and persist in my dabbling until I've become as obscure as possible.
These days I most always reach a point where what I'm writing wants to become a drawing. I have to take my hands down then and put them in other hands and, instead of writing, draw what I'm thinking and feeling. It's such an interesting phenomenon, at least to me, like pulling the old rubber plug from the claw-footed bathtub right after I've filled it with hot water.