“You’ll stop worrying what other people think about you when you realize how seldom they actually do
~ David Foster Wallace”
That phantom crowd in your skull—the one critiquing your grip mid-paradiddle, tallying every ghost-note ghosted, whispering “fraud” when the fill flies wide? They’re mirages, mate. You’ll quit the fret when the truth taps you on the shoulder: folks aren’t dissecting your downbeat; they’re adrift in their own off-rhythms, chasing lost keys or yesterday’s regrets. The bassist’s eyeing his ex in row three, the singer’s scripting tomorrow’s setlist in her head, and the front-row fan? He’s replaying his own botched boardroom beat. Wallace nailed it—our worry’s a solo act in a house half-empty. From this stool, I’ve learned: the real audience is the one inside, the one that cheers persistence over polish. Let the external eyes blur to irrelevance; your groove doesn’t need their vote. Play for the echo you own. The silence? It’s applause enough.