There's an Empty Hotel/Sanitarium Room with My Name on the Door

I'm pretty much at my limit as far as stress goes this week. I'm scheduled to take a vacation from work next week, and this morning I got a phone call suggesting that the dynamics at work might change.
I might be transferred.
I don't want to be transferred, and I haven't done anything lately to warrant being plucked from my rightful throne. Somebody else is being plucked. And they want to switch us. Move us around. Flip us over each other.
Not a promotion.
Not a raise.
No incentive to make me think it's a desirable move.
I don't want to go.
My vote is a big, loud, resounding "HECK NO!"
But ultimately, it's not up to me, and I'll just have to deal with it.
Just Deal.

And of course, if this happens, there's the possibilty that I won't get my vacation next week.
I need this vacation.
I've tried to take a vacation a few times in the past few months, and something always happens that makes it impossible to go.
Somebody gets fired.
Somebody quits.
Somebody tranfers.
Somebody gets hospitalized.

I understand the significance of each of these events. I don't want to sound self-righteous, as if my issues are so much more important than somebody else's particular problem, but enough is enough people. It's long past my turn for a little respite care! If I don't get this vacation, I might actually explode.
I'm going to equate the emotional stress to the kind of agony you feel when your grandma dies, or your house burns down, or your boyfriend tells you he's leaving you for an older, uglier woman.

Add that stress to the actual stress I'll feel trying to adjust to a new boss, a new store, a new schedule, and I'll be carrying around a live grenade that could escape my control at any given point.

Have you ever read Firestarter by Stephen King? At the end, where the little girl is so pissed off that everthing around her starts to catch on fire, things start to explode, the lake boils...

That will be me.
.
.