I would describe my relationship with sleep as adversarial; I do not really like it, and I am convinced it does not like me. There is something about it that reeks of wasted time and missed opportunities, two things which I feel I have more than enough experience with during my waking hours.
Part of my problem with sleep might be dreams, which I almost always remember (while I have only written about my dreams twice, here and here, they make up a good chunk of my private journal). Obviously, nightmares make me feel bad, but even extremely positive dreams have a negative influence. Often, I feel myself in a good mood the morning after such wonderful dreams, only to question why they differ so much from the gray (oops) reality of my life.
The only dreams that give me any sense of continual happiness are those in which I become lucid. Even though I have talked about this before, here is another example from an entry about on a month ago on my personal journal:
At this point, I became lucid. "This is just a dream," I thought, "It isn't real." My hands began to glow, and then sprouted fireballs (this was intentional). I raised them above my head, where they merged into a massive ball of light suspended in mid-air by my right hand. I walked down the street, assuring people that everything was going to be alright. There was a red-haired girl ([name removed]?). She did not believe me. By mental will (I think I also may have touched her), I made her believe. The ball of light went out, and I lost control again.
Some of my best work blogging has been when I should have been sleeping: see here, here, here, here, here, and here.