averting disaster

I was in my bedroom, toying with what appeared to be a paper shredder. There was a long slot at the front designed to receive paper before shredding it and depositing it in a tray. I had pushed my hand into the slot and was now desperately trying to extract it, hoping my fingers would not be mangled. My brother appeared in the doorway, but he was many years younger than his real-life age; in fact, he was just a child. I called to him and asked him to help. He quickly checked that the power was off and then we pulled my hand free of the shredder. I picked him up (he was only small) and he wrapped both his arms and legs around me. I kissed him on the head and told him I loved him, rocking him gently.
The scene skipped forward and we were both in a giant building made of ice. We understood that there was a tremendous amount of water stored behind the walls and ceiling, and that, though safe right now, the situation was quite precarious. Someone was singing and we moved about the space, gliding around as though on an ice rink. Suddenly, the person singing punctured the ceiling with what I think was a knitting needle, cracking the layer of ice between the enormous body of water above and everyone below. Panic. Everyone wanted to get out of the building at once. My brother (still a child) and I rushed to the nearest exit and began sliding on our bottoms down the narrow corridor of ice, aware that the wave of water behind us was mounting. The line of people sliding with us started and stopped, people getting stuck in crevices and snared by ice build-ups. When I saw that my brother was struggling, I started to sing a song about letting things happen, allowing life to take its course and energy to flow. Somehow it helped him, and others around us, and we all slid effortlessly through the rest of the tunnel, emerging into the daylight, safe at the end.