Whenever I try to talk myself out of anxiety, out of the ridiculous and inefficient freight train that is my brain at 3am, I remind myself to give up. Give up trying, give up the tricks (the breathing, the meditation, the calming self-talk), take a dropperful of California poppy, read a few chapters and then go back to sleep (or not).
It makes life difficult, this kind of insomnia, these seemingly inexplicable and unpredictable tidal surges of anxiety, and that sucks. I hear you.
But you know, I've come to realize stillness always comes for me (for all of us), eventually. I've come to depend on the fact that stillness is just sitting there in the corner of the room, quietly cross-legged, waiting (or meditating--whatever it is that stillness does). Eventually, because we never, apparently, outgrow the frustrated-toddler phase, we run ourselves to exhaustion.
Stillness gets up, slips in, pulls the covers up over our shoulders before turning out the lights as finally, finally, we sleep.