Late at night, the speaker is lying in bed, overwhelmed by thoughts that won't quiet down. The opening lines call these nocturnal thoughts "harmful," and the image of grabbing your head and messing up your hair makes the distress feel physical, almost frantic. Tears run from the cheek to the blanket, and the speaker can't hold them back.
The line about a miracle making its way around, followed by the admission that "it's not a fairytale," suggests a wish for rescue that reality doesn't grant. The thoughts are then pictured as noise banging on a wall, and the question "who is going to stop them?" sounds lonely, as if no one else is there to help.
The ending is quieter. Everything stops, the eyes are barely open, and the tears seem to wipe the noise away. The relief isn't triumphant. It feels like exhaustion after crying, a fragile calm that comes only once the speaker has let it all out. The mood moves from restless and painful to tired and still.