Seconds before the final whistle at Stamford Bridge, as Leandro Trossard narrowly failed to get a touch on a low cross from Jurriën Timber, Mikel Arteta could be seen rolling on his back on the touchline like a frisky labrador puppy. Still immaculate in his buttoned black anorak, hair flawless, he was very publicly agonised by such knife‑edge margins and in the process, perhaps tweaking the narrative a little, seeking some montage prominence, a final word on this tight, bruising 1-1 draw.

There was one major positive for Arsenal here, closely followed by one major negative. On the plus side Martin Ødegaard returned to the starting XI, played 90 minutes and notably improved the team. On the minus side, well, there’s only one of him. There is no other Ødegaard-shot lurking in the medicine bag. The difference he made here, even in half-fit form, that instant glaze of craft and control, will also be cause for a few regrets.

There has been a temptation to overstate Ødegaard’s importance, hailed like the return of Aslan to the winter kingdom, crocuses blooming at his feet, butterflies nestled in his extremely well-groomed mane. Rejoice for he is here among us. Playing on the half turn. But the transformation here in control, fluency and passing angles will also raise its own questions for Arsenal’s support. Remind me. Why do we need an Aslan again?

The opening goal, on the hour mark, was made by Ødegaard. It was an unusual moment in many ways. Ødegaard seemed to have taken the ball in a blind position, too close to the Chelsea block on the edge of the box. But there is a restless intelligence in that left foot. He waited half a beat, then produced a lofted, back-spun pass into a pocket of space that, once you saw it, seemed blindingly obvious, and which was suddenly filled with two Arsenal players on the overlap.

Gabriel Martinelli had time to snipe inside and smash the ball into space at the near post that perhaps should have been covered. It was a slightly odd goal, one of those moments when the game seems to fall apart a little, the stitching coming loose. Nobody in this team, or in many others, can pass like this, find moments of clarity and stillness in the middle of all that heat, pushing the red shirts into position like a field marshal nudging his toy tanks across the map on the war-room table.

It was a significant moment in other ways. Oddly, this was Arsenal’s first away league goal from genuine open play since Aston Villa in August, and first away league goal of any type since the second against Manchester City in September. The correlation with the absence of this team’s mobile on-field brain is obvious enough.

And while Arsenal were better here, they were still convalescent, the aim above all to stop the bleeding. Stamford Bridge was a wet mizzly Sunday-ish kind of place at kick-off, a ceiling of damp white cloud fading in over the blue steel lip of the stands.

It would be wrong to call this a dull game. It was more of an angry game, but impressively so, sustaining the same sense of trapped rage right to the end. This was the kind of game where Malo Gusto playing in a slightly inverted full-back position was the most exciting thing going on in the opening 20 minutes, source of much touchline arm waving. You really should have been there.

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It was the kind of game where everyone gets really angry if the players stop for a head injury, where Enzo Maresca stepping outside his chalk rectangle and being chastised by the fourth official became briefly a topic of mass pitch-side rage. Kai Havertz’s face began to bleed and people were angry because that was a thing. For Chelsea, Marc Cucurella dealt with Bukayo Saka very well, a constant pestering presence, hair flying, like being marked by a thickly matted patch of seaweed.

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But this time Arsenal had Ødegaard too, an alternate point of incision. And he was good. He worked and harried and hustled, because this is also what he does. He led the press in the way it hasn’t been led for a while. He bought that air of head prefect calm, a footballer with the brain of a rising star at a magic circle accountancy firm, and the feet of a high‑precision Nordic football pixie.

The stats said Ødegaard played four key passes in the game which, if we are to believe the person deciding the level of key-ness in passes, is twice as many as anyone else. He tackled, blocked, cleared and fouled. He’s just a furiously all-round kind of footballer. If Martin Ødegaard were to cook you a seven-course taster lunch, which he would probably do really well, in crisp and unstained chef’s pinafore, he would also insist on scrubbing the pans in between courses while expertly controlling all the lights and music.

Pedro Neto scored a brilliant equaliser for Chelsea with 70 minutes gone, skating into space at startling speed and smashing a low shot into a corner. But it was clear by the end that Arsenal will be fine with Ødegaard in the team. The levels lift everywhere else. The game becomes easier, more orderly. Ground has already been lost here, time wasted, water trodden. There is still time to fix it. But the level of dependence should remain a concern.