I think about death pretty often. My own, mostly. It intrigues me, in a way. I certainly do not fear death. Why waste the energy worrying about something that will absolutely, with one hundred percent certainty, happen to each and every one of us? Those who are scared of dying have something to hide.
And when I die, what will I leave behind? My clothes, my shoes, the stuff in that one drawer I keep locked: I doubt those things will last much beyond my natural life. But the work of my hands: who knows? Through the motise, tenon, dovetail and dado, I may live forever.
At least until the collapse of civilization, in which case all would be turned to firewood anyway.