You were very ill in the past, but you survived. Since that time, you have to undergo periodic (say, every six months) medical tests to ensure than the bug hasn't come back. You are wedded to the ghost of your illness.
Most of the time, you don't remember you past sufferings. It's almost as if they had happened to a different person. But as the date for a new test approaches, you become more and more nervous. You haven't noticed any suspicious symptoms (you noticed a lot of them in the first few revisions, when the hypochondria of the survivor was still in full force) but you fear what the tests may reveal: that the illness has come back and is hidden in your innards, like some ugly beast silently stalking his prey, ready to strike.
You try to hide your growing unease from your loved ones. Your parents, your fiancé, may become ever more distressed than you are. You enter the doctor's room in a state of near panic, intently observing his face, his posture, every little movement or grimace he makes. They will reveal the bad news even before his words do.
The doctor tells you everything is all right, bringing immense relief. You call everybody to share the good news, and exit the hospital real quick. An hour later, your are back to your normal routine and barely remember the anguish of the last few days.
Is it rational to "allocate" your fear in such a manner between consecutive tests? Either you are already sick, or you aren't. The news themselves can't harm you, so why then your fear increases as the test approaches? It's not as if the doctor is waiting to pummel you with baseball bat or anything.
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