Afraid of dying

Not you will survive. Something in you is such that birth and death are simply the wrong words for it — the way asking whether the number seven is heavy is not a question with an answer.

न जायते म्रियते वा कदाचि न्नायं भूत्वा भविता वा न भूयः
अजो नित्यः शाश्वतोऽयं पुराणो न हन्यते हन्यमाने शरीरे

It is not born, and it does not die. Having been, it does not cease to be. Unborn, unending, everlasting, ancient — the body is killed; that is not.

Weapons do not cut it, fire does not burn it, water does not wet it, wind does not dry it. Four attempts, four failures. The repetition is doing the work.

नैनं छिन्दन्ति शस्त्राणि नैनं दहति पावकः
न चैनं क्लेदयन्त्यापो न शोषयति मारुतः

Weapons do not cut it, fire does not burn it, water does not wet it, wind does not dry it.

What matters is what you are holding at the moment of leaving. Which makes the whole of the rest of life the practice for it.

अन्तकाले च मामेव स्मरन्मुक्त्वा कलेवरम्
यः प्रयाति स मद्भावं याति नास्त्यत्र संशयः

And at the last hour, one who leaves the body remembering me alone goes to my own state. Of this there is no doubt.

The chapter's last verse, and the state it describes is available now — sthitvāsyām anta-kāle ’pi, established in it even at the end.

एषा ब्राह्मी स्थितिः पार्थ नैनां प्राप्य विमुह्यति
स्थित्वाऽस्यामन्तकालेऽपि ब्रह्मनिर्वाणमृच्छति

This is the state of Brahman, son of Pritha. Having reached it, one is not deluded. Established in it, even at the hour of death, one comes to the peace of Brahman.