I had a nightmare the other night that my little brother had turned into some kind of monster and was creating a sort of wintery post-apocalyptic hellscape evocative of World War I imagery in which I had to fight to survive, and, hopefully, prevail over his destruction. After getting over the terror, when I woke up, it was actually pretty reassuring.
Right now I'm working on a draft of a novel into which I'm pouring a ton of my anger about the circumstances of my childhood and early adulthood, and the people I ought to have been able to trust, and by whom I was instead threatened, gaslighted, and occasionally physically harmed.
And I've had what I know is a kind of anxiety writers I admire would recognize (because they've talked about it) -- The fear that there's no more story in you after this one.
It barely even begins to make sense, but I've been afraid that I'm going to use up all the sad in my life, write one good book, and then never be able to accomplish anything written down again. So it was a pretty reassuring experience to have a nightmare reminding me that there are yet-untapped avenues of pathological fear and mistrust in my mind.