Careless Whisper?

Somehow this is when the voices are the loudest.

(Not voices a la "wrap your head in tinfoil, mortals, lest they hear you" or "drown the cat, it's the devil" variety.  Just to be clear.)

No. I mean the voices who whisper constantly, but almost in another language, or on another frequency. The ones like a crossed line in your own mind, the ones who you can't ever quite make out clearly. The nudgy little asides, impotent shouting, like someone in a foreign language trying to make you understand by raising the metaphorical volume, and the cacophonous whispers from deep within your mind which resemble nothing else so much as wind, whipping around your head, lapping at your hair, buffeting your ears, perfectly audible but incomprehensible.

Those voices.
Once the children have stilled for the night, slumbering in their beds, and the telephone lies dark and dormant, the television has been clicked into silence and the birds retreat to their arboreal rest - I find I am left with these swirling, wispy remnants of a thousand dreams, a lifetime of echoes, an eternity of concepts dancing through my poor, beleaguered thinking apparatus.

Is it any wonder sleep doesn't come easily or that I have busy dreams?  I personally don't find any mystery in it but then again, I don't know anything about it really, and the voices, for all their persistence, aren't telling me.