Signs of Maturity ?

The other day I was driving in-laws to the airport.  The traffic was the worst I'd ever seen; when I exited I-5 for highway 205, the congested traffic slowed to about ten miles an hour and stayed that way until just after the Oregon City exits.  It picked up a bit where 205 passed Clackamas.  As we passed what my Reedy housemates and I used to call the "Tacky-Mess Clown Center," a beat-up white car shot out of an on-ramp, crossed three lanes, wedged itself between my car and the car in front of me, and nearly smashed into my front passengers-side headlight.  

Reflexes, and possibly The Force, helped me to break (and honk) and avoid a collision.  The other driver was obviously insane, but not nearly as insane as another driver who appeared about a minute later and would have happily rammed my rear bumper because I was in her way.

We arrived at the airport unscathed, and I saw my in-laws off.  

What strikes me about the whole thing is that if this had happened fifteen years ago, or even five years ago, I would have had a sinking sensation in my stomach and my hands would have been shaking; I would have been replaying the near-accident for the thousandth time by the time I got home.  I would have composed an angry and sarcastic song about bad drivers in Portland.  But I feel detached from it all—I'm not sure if this is a sign of maturity, or if I should be worried that I'm operating in a fog.