Following on Lisabet's post it would be easy to pick up on that particular bag of woes that seems to plague a lot of us from time to time - the seemingly never ending computer/internet/blogging/pirating/emailing/coming up with fresh ideas/semi-original plot lines, blues. So perhaps I'll concentrate on the word - worry...
To worry means to fret, be concerned, be anxious, agonize, over-think, brood, panic, lose sleep, get worked up, get stressed, get in a state, stew, torment oneself -
Oh my God, see, I suffer from all of those and more.
I had an aunt who personified the word, worry. She worried about everything, but mostly about what people would think. When we'd visit friends - "Oh we must take something, even if it's just a bag of biscuits - otherwise what will they think?" She'd leave extra large tips in restaurants because, "Oh I can't have her thinking I can't afford it." Before the cleaning lady came over she'd run around like a dervish dusting and polishing "I can't have her thinking I live in a pigsty!" When she grew old and signed herself into a nursing home she worried that the building would burn to the ground because of all the old people who still smoked - so she slept with her shoes on, ready for a quick getaway. No kidding.
She died at age 96. Who says worrying can kill you before your time?
Actually I'm a bit like her. I worry about the most inconsequential things. Can I wear the same shirt twice in a week at work? Will someone notice? No... Did I notice what Matilda or Hortense was wearing yesterday? No... Yet I worry that they'll think I have only two or three shirts to my name. FYI I do have more than three.
More to the point, I'm afraid I do fret and agonize about whether readers will like my next book. It doesn't matter that I've sweated bullets over the nuances of the plot, that I've tried to make my lead characters, likeable, charming, hot - that I've made sure, using every formula known to Goodreads, that the sex scenes burn up the pages, I know there will be some so-called reviewer out there who'll dismiss the whole freakin' thing with the words, "Skip it."
No, no I'm not panicking or losing sleep over it. I'm not getting in a stew, or stressed out. I'm not tormenting myself by thinking that maybe if I'd only listened to the words of Tammy from Cincinnati that Dalton should never have cheated on Dimitri and she will never read another word I ever write if she lives to be five hundred years old - I might have had a best seller. No, I promise I'm not brooding, over thinking or getting in a state over it. I'm really just...worried.