Dread makes you stop breathing; makes you experience, over and over again, the sensation of taking your last breath.
How precious--but breath only works when you let it go. Like most other things, breath becomes toxic when you try to hold it.
The paradox of precious things: you have to let them go to fully appreciate their value. The stinging in your heart you feel when you lose something/someone is what love is. Grief for love lost is love's fullest expression.
Your dread and worry are an underhanded attempt to borrow from death's drama; a futile effort to pass into a breathless heaven of frozen memories. Rather than living your life you would rather watch it flash, frame by frame, before your eyes.
Every joy is tainted with the knowledge that it will fade into sorrow.
You construct shelter from impending doom in the space between breaths. If only you can somehow manage to not panic at the sensation of emptiness, you will find everything is fine in the space between.
The space between each breath is the only peace you will ever know. It is the container of soul and eternity.