A writer had a dream, a dream he knew to be true. Go to the north hill and kill the white bear. The bear is your fear, so long as it lives, you will never write a word.
The writer grabbed a rifle and went to the north hill. The bear was there, so massive it blotted out the sun. Its pale skin barely contained its sea of rippling muscles. Its claws were as long as scythes and they dripped blood.
The writer prepared to go home, pleased with himself. I have conquered my fear. Everything from this day forward will be easy.
A sound caught his ear. He looked into the valley beyond. Thousands of bears waited, one for every day of his life, each one bigger than the last. The writer looked down at his laughably inadequate weapons. Tomorrow would be harder than he thought.