Dave Bonta's "Reality check" is only three short lines, but it feels like a quick intake of breath. The speaker seems to be moving upward, perhaps rising out of sleep or out of a restless, anxious night, toward what the poem calls "the real morning." That word "real" does a lot of work. It suggests the night was full of something false, or at least distorted.
The last line is crowded with adjectives: "all the busy ill almost night." The phrasing is slightly awkward, and that seems deliberate. It mimics the jumble of a mind that has been churning, a night that was busy and unwell and never quite fully dark. The word "almost" leaves it half-finished, like a thing already slipping away.
The mood is one of relief, but a tentative kind. Nothing is celebrated loudly. The speaker simply checks, as the title says, and finds that morning is solid and the night's tangle is behind them.