For reasons both physiological and psychological I wound up with maybe three or possibly four hours of (maximally interrupted) sleep last night, both preceded by and followed with major league stress-outs, and now I feel like a wrung out dishrag with eyelids which weigh as much as a pound sausage apiece and a funky litle headache just behind them, in the perfect place to make my vision constantly blurry and twitchy.
And I've still got pre-Wiscon things to do, and then there's a day of travelling, technically - and none of this is taking any account of this novel that's supposed to be being written (except that I keep on tripping on other things on the way).
We shall overcome I guess, but in the meantime I'm cranky and fragile and wrecked. More later. FIlm at 11.