Timor mortis conturbat me (Fear of death troubles me).
When I was younger, the nature of my work put me in some uncomfortable scenarios. Then (and now) I found myself drawn to the poem "Lament for the Makaris" by the 15/16th Century Scottish poet, William Dunbar, lamenting the deaths of various poets, writers and artists (Makaris = Makers). The spelling is of his time, but quite accessible. He starts by writing
"I that in heill was and gladness
Am trublit now with gret sickness
And feblit with infermite
Timor mortis conturbat me."
and goes on to note that no-one: strong or weak; young or old - is immune from the clutches of Death ("He takis the knychtis in to feild, anarmit under helme and scheild") ("That strang unmercifull tyrand, takis, on the moderis breist sowkand, the babe full of benignite"), then lists the various Makaris who have died (including such notables as Chaucer), before ending with the verse in which he comes to terms with the inevitability of his own eventual death:
"Sen for the deid remeid is none,
Best is that we for dede dispone,
Eftir our deid that lif may we;
Timor mortis conturbat me."
It's a lovely poem, which calls down the ages, and puts day to day anxieties into perspective. It's easily found on the internet.