Having examined worry once before a couple of exhibits from my past catastrophising surfaced to worry me some more …
I’ve always been a worrier. A proper, Olympic level fretter. I can remember moments in my youth when I worried because I didn’t have anything to worry about — a sort of anxiety vacuum that my brain insisted on filling. My imagination sees an empty space and thinks, “I’ll panic in that.”
And while age has sanded down the sharper edges of my catastrophising, I’m still not immune from the classic 3am percolating panic — that special blend of insomnia, imagination, and the sudden conviction that the boiler is plotting against me.
We all know the memes: “Worrying is like sitting in a rocking chair — it gives you something to do but doesn’t get you anywhere.” A line clearly written by someone who has never waited for a teenager to answer their phone.
Because sometimes worrying isn’t just natural — it’s necessary. It’s the body’s way of saying, “Hang on — this doesn’t smell right,” even if the brain then takes that message and sprints off into a full blown Netflix crime thriller.
Exhibit A: The BMW Incident
Take the night my teenage daughter left a party early with a mysterious bloke in a BMW. She wasn’t answering her phone. My imagination didn’t just run riot — it organised a street parade. As a former cop, I knew exactly how bad endings could look, and my brain kindly replayed every one of them in HD.
I even reported her missing.
When she finally answered — claiming she’d just left and was getting a lift home — my worry didn’t evaporate; it simply changed flavour. I tore back to our cul de sac in my BMW X5, blocked the road like a budget police interceptor, and watched her stagger out of a beat up German banger holding one shoe, hair like she’d been dragged through a hedge backwards.
I asked the ashen faced lad behind the wheel, “What the fuck have you done with my daughter?” He pleaded with me not to hit him. It worked. My worry evaporated instantly, replaced by the warm glow of paternal fury and the knowledge that she was safe — if slightly sideways.
Exhibit B: O Level Results
Earlier in life, I worried about my O levels. I worried so much I practically wore grooves in the carpet pacing. And did it help? Did it change the grades? Did the exam board say, “He seems stressed, give him an extra C”? Of course not. But I passed all seven. Which proves nothing except that sometimes the universe throws you a bone.
So why do we worry?
1. Because the brain is wired for negativity.
Research shows negative information hits harder than positive — a phenomenon called the negativity bias, driven by our ancient fight or flight circuitry. Negative events trigger adrenaline, heart rate spikes, and deeper encoding in memory. In other words: your brain is not trying to ruin your life; it’s trying to keep you alive.
2. Because social embarrassment feels like mortal danger.
Studies on social evaluative threat show that situations threatening our social standing (like imagining my daughter’s friends gossiping about her dad blocking a road with an X5) trigger measurable stress responses — shame, anxiety, cortisol spikes. Your brain thinks humiliation is death. Which explains a lot about my teenage years.
3. Because humour and worry are locked in a wrestling match.
Humour can help — but only if your brain can shift attention away from negative interference. When negative content dominates, humour’s benefits weaken. This explains why jokes don’t land well when you’re imagining your daughter being bundled into a boot – or a similar imagined traumatic event.
4. Because worry sometimes heightens awareness.
This is the one redeeming feature: worry can sharpen senses, increase vigilance, and prepare you for action. It’s why I went full Dad SWAT Team in the cul de sac.
Is worrying ever useful?
Surprisingly, yes — in moderation. Humour researchers note that reframing stressful situations with comic perspective improves emotional regulation, cognitive flexibility, and resilience. And neuroplasticity research suggests that consciously shifting your thoughts — including through humour — can reshape brain pathways and counter anxiety.
The trick isn’t eliminating worry. It’s training your brain to stop catastrophising and start contextualising.
Practical steps to reduce unnecessary anxiety.
• Name the worry. If you can label it (“I’m imagining my daughter being kidnapped by a BMW driving psychopath”), you can shrink it.
• Humour it. Literally. Reframing the situation with comic absurdity activates different neural circuits and reduces stress.
• Interrupt the pattern. Learning something new — even badly — forces the brain out of autopilot and reduces rumination.
• Accept the negativity bias. Your brain is not a neutral referee. It’s a panicky Victorian aunt clutching pearls. Recognise it, and you can override it.
Worrying may be pointless, exhausting, and occasionally ridiculous, but it’s also deeply human. It’s the mind’s way of saying, “I care,” even if it expresses that care by imagining – in my case – my daughter being trafficked by a man whose car barely passed its last MOT.
But with humour, awareness, and a bit of cognitive retraining, we can turn worry from a tyrant into a mildly annoying background character.
As Mark Twain allegedly said — and every worrier should tattoo on their forearm:
“I’ve had a lot of worries in my life, most of which never happened.”
And thank goodness for that!
© Ian Kirke 2026 & title image
@ iankirke.bsky.social