You wrote that the studying feels almost electric lately — that words on the page seem to open onto something vast, that you can sense more than you can say. I believe you. I am not going to talk you out of what you feel.
But I want to name the danger plainly, because no one named it for me. Light without a vessel does not illuminate. It scatters. The same brightness that warms a room can blind an eye that has nothing to shield it. The intensity you are sensing is real — and it is not yet yours to carry, because the carrying part has not been built.
Light without a vessel does not illuminate. It scatters.
What the vessel actually is
A vessel is unglamorous. It is the fixed hour you keep even when you do not feel inspired. It is the ordinary obligation honored when no one is watching. It is the patience to learn the revealed Torah — the plain text, the law, the argument — before reaching for what hides beneath it.
The tradition is sober about this for a reason. It cautions, in general terms, that the hidden things are studied after maturity, after grounding, after a life has been ordered. Not because the heights are forbidden, but because a person without structure does not ascend — he dissolves.
Slow the brightness
So I would tell you this: let the intensity wait. Build the unremarkable hours. Let the law and the order of your days become the cup that can one day hold more.
And do not do this alone. The sensation you are describing is exactly the kind a person should bring to a living teacher who knows you — not to a feed, not to a page found at midnight. Sit with someone real. Say what you feel out loud, to a face. Let them help you shape the vessel before you ask for the light.