I’m afraid of flying. It’s the worst fear to have, because it’s the one fear no one respects. You make the mistake of telling someone, and you're rewarded with a carnival of crass number crunching (with The Cruncher prattling on like he’s the first one ever to say it): “You know statistically, you’re safer in the air than you are on the ground!”
Everyone is an actuary all of a sudden.
Yessssss, I knowwwwww, plane crashes are improbable. So is encountering a dangerous spider. But an arachnophobe suffers no barbs for going public with his fear. No one says, “’Fraid of spiders?! DU-DE, you’re safer around a spider than you are around your wife! Don’t you read Zoobooks?”
It isn’t the odds of a plane crash that scare me. It’s what happens if the odds go against me. A bell curve-shaped parachute ain’t gonna magically open when I’m spiraling into the ground.
“Let’s see, Gaussian analysis of the flight’s risk profile should mean--SPLAT. Oh right, still dead. Uh, what are the odds on resurrection?”