My gut instincts are trying to tell me something

I just don't know what.
It's about work. I am terrified of going back in February. I love my job, and the five years Ive been there but I have no idea how we are going to manage with me teaching every evening. Ive started this lovely daily rhythm with Isaac. He's like me. He loves the comfort of home and its warm layers of predictable fuzziness. He's sleeping like a trooper-up to ten hours a night from 7pm until 5am, which is when I feed him, put him straight back in his cot beside our bed, and he sleeps another two hours or so, or just lies there talking to his Winnie the Pooh mobile. Long enough to feel like he's letting us have a lovely snooze until 8am at least. Then, I lay him down on our bed, he plays with his dad, (who's still getting used to the early morning wake up call - not easy for a semi-imsomniac jazz piano player) whilst I get in the shower and get dressed for the day. After that my wonderful husband drags himself out of bed and goes down to make me breakfast whilst I spend the rest of the morning playing with Isaac until its time to feed him and put him down for his mini morning nap. He doesn't sleep again until midday for a couple of hours. That's when I can potter around the house, and get whatever I can remember done. By six, hes ready to say good night and me and the other half have the rest of the evening to chill out.
Its been lovely. Ever since my parents left, when he was six weeks old, he just tranformed into such an easy baby. I feel so fortunate. That's why going back to work is scaring me so much. The total change in rhythm for all of us and more so for Isaac. He's so happy being nursed too. So far he has absolutely refused to take any pacifiers or bottles which is going to be a huge problem. It just goes against every motherly bone in my body to be away from him, particularly in the evening and to force him into doing something for our convenience. The thought of leaving him with a nanny (something we can't afford anyway) or worse, leaving him at a nursery when hes still so little terrifies me. I know it can be done, and that mothers have to make these kinds of decisions all the time, but I always go back to that same sad thought. Here it comes.
If only I was back in London. If only my parents were here. They are the only people I would happily have him stay with, and the only people who would be willing to do the job. The week they came was just the best. Hearing them potter around the house in the morning, hearing the sound of the kettle and the clink of cups and spoons as tea was being made. I miss hearing that sound. The sound of home. Now all I hear is the telly, and my little boy squealing with laughter. Being his usual cheerful self.
Some very important decisions ahead.