You're backstage before a talk. The body is doing the fear thing. Heart racing. Palms damp. Mouth dry. The talk itself isn't scary. The talk is fifteen minutes of saying things you know. What's scary is the image of you doing the talk badly. The image of the audience watching you fail. The image of someone in the third row checking their phone and you noticing.
K's second move on fear: most fear isn't about the event. It's about the image attached to the event. You're not afraid of failing. You're afraid of being seen as someone who failed. You're not afraid of rejection. You're afraid of being the kind of person who got rejected. The fear runs on image, not on the actual thing.
This explains why fear persists when the actual stakes are low. A small social misstep is objectively trivial. The body responds to it like a predator attack. The image of being-seen-as-someone-who-misstepped is doing the work. The image is what the fragment is defending. The fragment will defend the image at any cost. Losing the image is closer to losing the self than the actual event would ever be.
Try this: imagine doing the scary thing but with no audience. None. Not even your own internal observer. Just you, alone, doing it. The fear changes texture. It might not disappear. It lightens. The weight was in the audience. The audience was the image inspector. Without the inspector, the event is just an event.
You aren't afraid of what happens. You're afraid of how you'll appear having had it happen. The fear is image-based. The fragment is the image. The fear is the fragment defending itself against the version of you that would lose the image.