As you no doubt will be aware, death happens. It is an extremely necessary part of life. Or, as my optimistic imagination puts it: Life is a part of every death.
The human race, to which so many of my readers belong, has always been afraid of death. Even most of those who say they are not do, I think, feel something: the slightest tendril of fear, of doubt, even horror, at what awaits beyond. It is something primal, something ineradicable; no matter how hard that annoying rational part of our brains may protest at the silliness of the fear — “I do not fear death, in view of the fact that I had been dead for billions and billions of years before I was born, and had not suffered the slightest inconvenience from it,” as Mark Twain had it — we are still a wee bit worried by death.
Or rather, what happens beyond it. If you are of a religious inclination you will certainly be terrified about where you are going to go — God’s grace, or Satan’s torment? (Replace Satan and God with whatever brands are popular in your neck of the woods). If you aren’t worried, then you think you are moral enough to get into Heaven: such proudness is surely a quick route — one of many — to Hell. Thus, your chances of being damned are much higher, and you should be — nay, need to be — very worried about your spiritual accommodation after death.