The speaker describes a kind of tiredness that has nothing to do with a bad night. They slept well, they've had their coffee, and still they feel drained. Right away the poem rules out the easy explanation, which makes the exhaustion feel more stubborn and harder to name. It sits "in the fibres of my skin, / in my tendons, in my eyes," as if it has soaked into the body itself.
In the middle, the speaker lists what wears them down: noise and silence, people and empty rooms, light and dark, hope and despair. These are opposites, and the point seems to be that nothing offers relief, whichever way they turn. Even hope is tiring. The short, broken lines mimic a mind that can't settle. The mood is weary and quietly resigned rather than dramatic. The ending is the saddest part: the night doesn't have enough hours for the rest the speaker needs, which suggests they need something sleep can't provide.