Just say that your vascometrics have indicated that you’re reaching the threshold where your fatigue has become a measurable danger to productivity.
Just say that there’s another ship in the area that can cover the callouts for a while, and that your own ship’s computer has, finally, negotiated to allocate you a sleep cycle.
Just say that you’ve flushed out some of the amphetamines you’ve been sucking down in your coffee for the last 19 hours.
Just say that you have no subconscious Somno sleep processing scheduled.
Just say that you’re not feeling half-starved.
Just say that the ship is neither vacuum-cold from running in a low power environment, nor supernova-hot from the coolant throbbing through the walls, sinking heat both into space and back into the ship to burn off an unexpected spike in Salient reactor activity.
Just say that your synthetic, branded clothes aren’t itching, scratching and rubbing.
Just say that there aren’t broken systems nearby shrieking alarms about things you neither understand nor can affect.
Just say all the above things are true.
What do you do when you’re trying to sleep, and you realise, with full force and alacrity, that this is your life now, and will stay that way until you die — if you’re lucky?