I am the type of person that worries. I'm also the type that gets irritated at other people whom really have very little impact on my life. I do realize that this is really quite silly and adds a touch of self-destruction to my life because really it is worth upsetting myself over such insignificant actions as someone cutting someone else off or someone not using their turn signal? Really it's not worth it.
About 7 years ago I came to a realization that my irritation at drivers was sooo not worth taking that anger home, and therefore so not worth starting in the first place. I kind of came to peace with idiot drivers, and that people are people and they make mistakes. Of course I still want them to realize they make mistakes so I'm still working on my irritation of drivers that are clueless to how their actions effect others.
In general, I am hyper sensitive to how my actions effect others. So I therefore expect others to do the same. Maybe I need to work on the hyper part of my sensitivity, but really, it is so much to ask that if there is an obvious line waiting to get onto the train, and people coming off, and everyone in the LINE is stepping back and allowing these nice people to get off the train, must you, the ever important man with the acid washed 80's Levi Jean Jacket and very short crew cut, push your way passed the LINE and upset the outgoing passengers so you can stand in the train? You didn't even try to get a seat. You just stood there, now blocking those in the LINE calmly walking onto the train.
You see? Sure he was the rock the the middle of the stream that disturbed the glass like surface, but really was it so much of a disturbance that I aught to notice? And then secretly laugh inside my head when the train was delayed due to "Police action" at a station down the line, and he obviously was bothered by his day being disturbed so he paced for a few minutes and then stomped off the train in a huff? (tee hee) And then here I am, I've made it to the office, 1/2 an hour late yet I still have the images and my feelings of irritation fresh on my fingertips.
Why should I care?
Why does my mind see these things, and then hold onto them?
Perhaps my mother scolded me often as a child to not cut in line. Or to watch out for people around me as I spun around in circles, singing aloud in the middle of the aisle of the grocery store. Whatever it was that caused my sensitivity to the effects and feelings of those around me, I'm sure my mother had something to do with it. It always comes down to the parents.