I would write but then visions of my letter buried in a postman's dark brown, musty leather sack leaves me claustrophobic, not to mention that the sack is on the shoulder of a stranger who whizzes up up up up up elevators to the 500th floor to where The Phobia Society of America has its office very high above the crowded New York City. So I'm afraid.
Talk is cheap.
Try acting out, Tough Guy. I'm in conflict. Your nights are supposed to be dark. Elevators are supposed to go up up up. Crowds happen naturally when more than a few people stand together.