What if, after you die, you find out you’re dead, and you’ve wasted your precious time all along?

I mean, what does it mean to "waste time" in this context? There's a certain existential dread that comes with the mystery of death - really the mystery of consciousness generally speaking - and we all cope with it as best we can. I don't think a ritualized means of managing one's anxiety is time wasted. If your genuflections to a carving of a guy on a crucifix sooth your own anxieties of loss-of-self, more power to you.

But it does feel a bit like someone asking "What if you stepped on a crack and then it really did break your mother's back?" I mean, that would be very scary and sad. I can't see the correlation between these two things. I'm not going to painstakingly tip-toe down the sidewalk out of a concern I don't take seriously.