Are we more afraid of the cancer we might have, or the person we become when we don’t know for sure? My thumb is hovering. It’s a rhythmic, stupid little twitch over the left-click button of a mouse that has seen better days. On the screen, the booking confirmation page for a diagnostic screening is glaring back at me with the sterile hostility of an empty hospital corridor. They call it ‘scan-xiety,’ a clever little portmanteau designed to make our primal terror feel like a manageable personality quirk. We are told-by pundits, by some cautious doctors, by our own trembling egos-that seeking too much information is a trap. That we will find something ‘incidental.’ That we will fall down a rabbit hole of biopsies and stress over a shadow that was never going to kill us.

I’m João L.-A., and I spend my days staring through a loupe at the guts of watches. I assemble movements where a single grain of skin or a microscopic burr on a brass gear can ruin a week of work. In my world, there is no such thing as ‘too much information.’ There is only the presence or absence of debris. Yet, here I was, sweating over a digital button because I’d been told that knowing the state of my own internal gears might somehow break me. It’s a strange contradiction. We live in an era where we track 14 different metrics of our sleep and 34 nuances of our daily caloric intake, yet when it comes to the actual structural integrity of our vessels, we are encouraged to remain in a state of ‘blissful’ ignorance until the check-engine light starts smoking.

Today at lunch, a colleague made a joke about ‘over-winding the escapement’ of his own sanity. I laughed. I didn’t actually understand why it was funny, but I pretended to because the social cost of being the guy who doesn’t ‘get it’ felt higher than the cost of a fake smile. It’s a habit. We pretend to understand the jokes, and we pretend to understand our health. We tell ourselves that as long as we feel ‘fine,’ we are fine. But ‘fine’ is a dangerous word in a watch shop, and it’s a lethal word in a body.

Uncertainty: The True Corrosion

The myth of scan-xiety suggests that the primary source of stress is the data itself. If you find a 4-millimeter nodule on a lung, you will worry. Therefore, the logic goes, it is better not to know about the 4-millimeter nodule. This is, quite frankly, a logic of cowardice disguised as clinical caution. As a man who deals with precision, I know that uncertainty is the true corrosive. It is the background hum of the ‘what if’ that drains the battery of the human spirit. I would rather know about 24 harmless cysts than spend 24 months wondering why my lower back has a dull ache every Tuesday. The human mind is a narrative machine; if you don’t give it facts, it will manufacture horrors. It will take a minor indigestion and turn it into a stage-four tragedy by midnight.

When you finally decide to look, the narrative stops being a ghost story and starts being a technical manual. I think about the Caliber 1104 movements I work on. If a watch is losing 4 seconds a day, I don’t ignore it because I’m afraid I’ll find a broken jewel. I open it up because the finding is the first step of the fix. The medical establishment’s fear of ‘over-diagnosis’ often feels like a projection of their own systemic limitations rather than a reflection of patient well-being. They worry about the cost of follow-ups or the burden on the system. But for the individual-for me, for the person holding the mouse-the burden is already there. It’s the burden of the unknown.

I remember a time when I ignored a slight rattle in my own car for 84 days. Every time I turned a corner, that little metallic ‘skitter’ would send a jolt of cortisol through my spine. I imagined the transmission falling out. I imagined the brakes failing on the highway. When I finally took it to the mechanic, it was a loose 4-cent coin in the ashtray. The 84 days of stress were far more damaging to my health than the five minutes it took to find the coin. This is the essence of why we should ignore the warnings against comprehensive scanning. The information might be ‘extra,’ but the peace of mind is fundamental.

The Value of the Incidentaloma

We are often told that the ‘incidentaloma’-that tiny, meaningless finding-is a curse. But why? If a scan shows something that requires monitoring, then you monitor it. You don’t lose your mind; you gain a data point. You move from the realm of the imaginary to the realm of the managed. In the world of high-end horology, we have 44 different points of inspection before a watch leaves the bench. Some of those inspections find ‘nothing,’ and that ‘nothing’ is the most valuable thing we sell. It is the certification of absence.

In my line of work, we don’t guess. We look. Which is why people are finally gravitating toward options like preventative health scan to get the full picture. It’s not about hunting for disaster; it’s about auditing the architecture. When you see the clarity of an image that spans from your cranium to your pelvis, the mystery vanishes. You are no longer a collection of symptoms and anxieties; you are a map. Maps are meant to be read.

The Responsibility of Resolution

I’ve spent 44 years on this planet, and I’ve realized that my mistakes always stem from a lack of resolution. I didn’t see the tiny crack in the mainspring because I didn’t want to look too closely. I didn’t realize I was offending my sister because I didn’t want to ask the hard questions. We avoid the high-resolution view because we are afraid of the responsibility that comes with it. If you know there is a problem, you have to act. Ignorance is the ultimate procrastination. But the gears keep turning, whether you’re looking at them or not.

There is a specific kind of calm that comes after a scan. Even if the news isn’t perfect, the air in the room changes. The ‘monster under the bed’ effect is neutralized. When you turn on the lights, you might find a monster, but at least you know where his head is and how many teeth he has. Usually, though, you just find some dust bunnies and a misplaced sock. The medical community calls the anxiety caused by results ‘scan-xiety,’ but they don’t have a word for the chronic, low-grade soul-rot caused by wondering if you’re dying while you’re trying to eat your breakfast.

Auditing the Architecture

I’ve been told I have a ‘fixation’ on precision. Maybe. But I’ve also seen what happens when precision is ignored. A watch that is off by 4 seconds an hour is useless by the end of the week. A body that is off by a few cells is a different story, but the principle holds. We deserve the right to our own data. We deserve to be the masters of our own biological inventory. The pushback against ‘too much information’ feels suspiciously like a desire to keep the patient in a state of dependency. If I have the map, I can choose the route.

The Tension of the Spring

The most expensive thing you will ever own is the information you decided you didn’t need until it was too late.

– A Hard-Learned Lesson

I think back to that joke I didn’t get. It was about the tension between the spring and the gear. The punchline was something about how if you don’t feel the tension, you’re already broken. I’m starting to think that the anxiety we feel about scanning isn’t a reason to avoid it-it’s the reason to do it. The anxiety is the tension in the spring. It’s telling us that the system is under pressure. The only way to release that tension safely is to engage the gears, to look at the mechanism, and to verify that everything is where it should be.

I finally clicked the button. The confirmation email arrived 4 minutes later. My heart rate, which had been sitting at a steady 84 beats per minute, actually dropped. The ‘what if’ was gone, replaced by ‘when.’ There is a scheduled time for my reality to be verified. I feel like I’ve just cleared a cluttered workbench. There is space to breathe now.

Patient to Explorer

People will tell you that you’re being ‘extra.’ They will tell you that you’re looking for trouble. But looking for trouble is the only way to ensure that trouble doesn’t find you first while you’re busy pretending to understand jokes and ignoring the rattle in your chest. We aren’t just collections of meat and bone; we are intricate, delicate movements that require maintenance, observation, and occasionally, a very deep look inside. I’m João L.-A., and I’d rather see the flaw through a loupe than feel the watch stop in the middle of the night.

The New Age of Inventory

We are entering an age where the ‘patient’ is becoming the ‘explorer.’ We are no longer passive recipients of whatever news the doctor deigns to share after we’ve already become symptomatic. We are proactive auditors of our own existence. That shift is terrifying to some, but to me, it feels like finally having the right screwdriver for a stubborn screw. It’s a tool. Use it.

In the end, the ‘Scan-xiety Myth’ is just a way to police our curiosity. It’s a way to tell us that we aren’t smart enough or tough enough to handle the truth of our own chemistry. I disagree. I think we are tougher than we know, but only when we know what we’re up against. The dark is only scary until you realize you’re the one holding the flashlight. And when that light hits the corners of your life, you might be surprised to find that you aren’t nearly as broken as you feared. You’re just a work in progress, 104 pieces of a puzzle finally coming together.