She felt each boom like an electric jolt as she was trying to sleep in her Alexandria, Va., apartment.

It was August 2006, and Ilana Berry was then a 30-year-old Central Intelligence Agency case officer. Outside, construction crews were beginning work on the Woodrow Wilson Bridge, knocking down the old expanse to make way for a new six-lane roadway.

But each rumble threw Berry off the steady anchors of time and place, hurling her back to her last year stationed in war-rocked Baghdad. “I remember waking up and having the worst panic attack of my life,” she recalled.

To cope, Berry began tracking when the crews would do demolitions and set an alarm for herself to stay awake. She began writing, caging the emotional fallout of her time in Iraq into the tidy frames of sentences.

Berry applied to join the CIA while attending law school at the University of Virginia, believing it would combine her interests in international relations and intelligence work with her sense of patriotic mission. After being accepted, she trained at Camp Peary near Williamsburg, Va., known as “The Farm.” “Your whole training is basically how to find people’s vulnerabilities,” Berry said. “What are their motivations? Is it flattery or vanity or revenge, or do they hate their boss? That was never an easy fit for me.”

But Berry graduated with high marks and volunteered to be stationed in Iraq for a year-long assignment. She arrived in 2004 as doubts were beginning to stain America’s initial reasoning for toppling Saddam Hussein’s regime. Among the CIA team, there was a growing realization that there were no weapons of mass destruction in the country.

The living conditions. The murky mission. All that seemed to Berry to fuel rampant alcoholism at the CIA station. “Baghdad really screwed me up,” she said.

Her tour done but still living with the emotional aftershocks in Virginia, Berry kept writing. She had volunteered to go next to Afghanistan and was enrolled in Farsi-language classes. During that time, Berry volunteered to the agency that she had been writing about her experience.

According to agency regulation, all current and former CIA employees must submit any writing they plan on releasing to the CIA’s Publication Classification Review Board, which determines whether a potential book or screenplay or writing contains classified information. After the agency learned Berry was working on a memoir, she submitted the manuscript.

When her writing came back, it was covered in redactions that Berry felt made little sense. “They redacted my height and weight,” she said. “They redacted the color of the sky. These are clearly things that are not classified.”

She channeled her frustration into an appeal over her manuscript. Eventually, the review board agreed with most of Berry’s appeal and removed most of the redactions.

By then, she had already resigned from agency, frustrated with the fight and her experiences in Iraq. She was married and a new mother. Though she had won the right to publish her account, she no longer wanted her own story out there.

Despite her clash with agency, piling the mixed feelings about her time as a spy into a memoir reminded Berry how much she enjoyed writing. As she launched herself into a new career as an attorney and later followed her husband to Bahrain in 2012, Berry kept at it. Now it was fiction.

The pages that would eventually become “The Peacock and the Sparrow,” a novel featuring a weary CIA officer caught in the turbines of Middle Eastern political change, include themes mined straight from Berry’s time at the agency. Its first lines plunge a reader into the morally ambiguous head space Berry learned in her training. “It was the ability to please that you learned as a spy: smoking a cigarette, offering compliments you didn’t mean, falling down drunk from having accepted too many vodkas,” Berry writes.

The book was feted by both the New Yorker and NPR on their annual lists of the best books of the year.

This month, the novel also won the Mystery Writers of America’s Edgar Allan Poe Award for best first novel by an American novelist, a significant industry award whose past recipients include Viet Thanh Nguyen and Tana French.

Even with that acclaim, Berry was still surprised when the CIA invited her to speak with Invisible Ink, a group of agency employees who are also writers.

“I was not exactly a poster child for the place,” Berry said. “But they assured me they valued authenticity over filtered plaudits, which were words I never thought I’d hear.”