than feeling vaguely troubled. It’s like waiting for the thumbscrews. The actual thumbscrews are not nearly so bad as waiting for them. The actual cataclysm is actually quite nice in comparison to anticipation of it.
And in the case of the “vaguely” even the temporal linearity of the “anticipatory” is missing. It’s not anticipation; it’s nothing in particular. It’s vague. It’s being stalked by a predator, not knowing whether it is hungry, merely bored, or in actuality paying attention to something else entirely, with your sense of foreboding being nothing more than the shadow of a shadow.