I don't know if this counts, really... but I remember once, decades ago, a sharp stab in my chest while I was trying to sketch, for a commission I think, and I immediately convinced myself it was... something TERMINAL. I spent hours online, searching for obscure syndromes, convinced my heart was just... giving out, right then. All those dreams, all those half-finished canvases, just fading... I think maybe I was really just terrified of NOT having enough time to make my mark, you know? Of being misunderstood forever.