From "Manual of Muad'Dib" by the Princess Irulan

I have another kind of sight. I see another kind of terrain: the available paths.
The awareness conveyed both reassurance and alarm—so many places on that other kind of terrain dipped or turned out of his sight.
As swiftly as it had come, the sensation slipped away from him, and he realized the entire experience had taken the space of a heartbeat.
Yet, his own personal awareness had been turned over, illuminated in a terrifying way. He stared around him.
Night still covered the stilltent within its rock-enclosed hideaway. His mother's grief could still be heard.
His own lack of grief could still be felt . . . that hollow place somewhere separated from his mind, which went on in its steady pace—dealing with data, evaluating, computing, submitting answers in something like the Mentat way.
And now he saw that he had a wealth of data few such minds ever before had encompassed. But this made the empty place within him no easier to bear. He felt that something must shatter. It was as though a clockwork control for a bomb had been set to ticking within him. It went on about its business no matter what he wanted. It recorded minuscule shadings of difference around him—a slight change in moisture, a fractional fall in temperature, the progress of an insect across their stilltent roof, the solemn approach of dawn in the starlighted patch of sky he could see out the tent's transparent end.
The emptiness was unbearable. Knowing how the clockwork had been set in motion made no difference. He could look to his own past and see the start of it—the training, the sharpening of talents, the refined pressures of sophisticated disciplines, even exposure to the O.C. Bible at a critical moment . . . and, lastly, the heavy intake of spice. And he could look ahead—the most terrifying direction—to see where it all pointed.
I'm a monster! he thought. A freak!
"No," he said. Then: "No. No! NO!"
He found that he was pounding the tent floor with his fists. (The implacable part of him recorded this as an interesting emotional datum and fed it into computation.)
"Paul!"
His mother was beside him, holding his hands, her face a gray blob peering at him. "Paul, what's wrong?"
"You!" he said.
"I'm here, Paul," she said. "It's all right."
"What have you done to me?" he demanded.
In a burst of clarity, she sensed some of the roots in the question, said: "I gave birth to you."
It was, from instinct as much as her own subtle knowledge, the precisely correct answer to calm him. He felt her hands holding him, focused on the dim outline of her face. (Certain gene traces in her facial structure were noted in the new way by his onflowing mind, the clues added to other data, and a final-summation answer put forward.)
"Let go of me," he said.
She heard the iron in his voice, obeyed. "Do you want to tell me what's wrong, Paul?"
"Did you know what you were doing when you trained me?" he asked.
There's no more childhood in his voice , she thought. And she said: "I hoped the thing any parent hopes—that you'd be . . . superior, different."
"Different?"
She heard the bitterness in his tone, said: "Paul, I—"
"You didn't want a son!" he said. "You wanted a Kwisatz Haderach! You wanted a male Bene Gesserit!"
She recoiled from his bitterness. "But Paul . . ."
"Did you ever consult my father in this?"
She spoke gently out of the freshness of her grief: "Whatever you are, Paul, the heredity is as much your father as me."
"But not the training," he said. "Not the things that . . . awakened . . . the sleeper."
"Sleeper?"
"It's here." He put a hand to his head and then to his breast. "In me. It goes on and on and on and on and—"
"Paul!"
She had heard the hysteria edging his voice.
"Listen to me," he said. "You wanted the Reverend Mother to hear about my dreams: You listen in her place now. I've just had a waking dream. Do you know why?"
"You must calm yourself," she said. "If there's—"
"The spice," he said, "It's in everything here—the air, the soil, the food. The geriatric spice. It's like the Truthsayer drug. It's a poison!"
She stiffened.
His voice lowered and he repeated: "A poison—so subtle, so insidious . . . so irreversible. It won't even kill you unless you stop taking it. We can't leave Arrakis unless we take part of Arrakis with us."
The terrifying presence of his voice brooked no dispute.
"You and the spice," Paul said. "The spice changes anyone who gets this much of it, but thanks to you , I could bring the change to consciousness. I don't get to leave it in the unconscious where its disturbance can be blanked out. I can see it."
"Paul, you—"
"I see it!" he repeated.
She heard madness in his voice, didn't know what to do.
But he spoke again, and she heard the iron control return to him: "We're trapped here."