Long, long ago, I wove a short story about the end of the world. It was a time not so distant from now, and it followed a few survivors of the human race, hiding underground during those final years when the sun was entering a premature Red Giant phase. The protagonist was a cocky, jaded fellow, who was given the chance to escape, flying away on the final shuttle mission to a lunar base. During his flight, he ran into powerful aliens, the beings responsible for the Earth's destruction, and they set him straight on a few things, including humanity's true influence and understanding of the universe.
It wasn't the most original tale, and it's one I never completed to my satisfaction, so it still remains unmarketed and unpublished.
When I wrote the story, I was still in my teens; young and idealistic. I looked out at the world, and was discouraged by the arrogance exuded by people in general. Whether from religious radicals or arrogant scientists, it seemed there were a lot of people proclaiming the "end of days," and it's all mankind's fault. This is nothing new. Since the dawn of time, the world was going to end tomorrow, though today we have a lot of theories to justify our doomsday prophecies.
My advice to everyone is sleep easy. The sun will come up tomorrow, and the Earth will not be a flaming ball of greenhouse gasses or a radioactive cinder. Beware false prophets, both religious and scientific. Their data is often skewed to get them greater attention.
And remember; don't bring a pitchfork to a gunfight.