Late-night has memorably been disrupted in the past — the writers’ strike, Hurricane Sandy, 9/11. But this was different, not a response to a disaster that happened but one that is mostly, unmeasurably, yet to come.

It was one of many moments this week that had the feel of the opening minutes of an apocalypse movie. A ritual we take for granted as much as our nightly tooth brushing had suddenly changed. Even as these shows’ live audiences decline, even as they become more about creating YouTube-able set pieces like James Corden’s “Carpool Karaoke,” their core is still a host on a stage, connecting with a crowd.

There have always been people to knock TV as an isolating habit that substitutes virtual companionship for actual. But this week underscored just how real that virtual fellowship is — real both in the physical presence of the studio audience (actual people, now at actual risk) and in its emotional importance.

TV is the thing that shows up when no one else is there. It’s your traditional sick day companion from childhood. And part of the service it delivered you, curled up on the couch, was not just the game shows and the talk shows but also their audiences, the teeming, screaming, laughing fans that made you part of a crowd, alone.

Now we are having, on a frightening and extended scale, a national sick day (or days or weeks or months). And suddenly it’s TV, or at least the most immediate, time-sensitive part of it, that’s alone, working from a mostly empty room.