I’m afraid I don’t have a firm enough grasp on time and how I’m supposed to interact with it. 
I’m afraid I only have something people and potential romantic prospects can only understand as curb appeal.
I’m afraid I’m too much of a collected end result of all my unfortunate experiences. I’m afraid I’ll only be able to exist as a concentrated product of all of them.
I’m afraid of too much noise I can’t filter out, and too much silence I can’t fill.
I’m afraid of how underdeveloped I constantly feel (in too many contexts) and I’m afraid of how much ignore it. I’m afraid of how often I’m reminded; of how compelled people are to remind me.
I’m afraid I will never feel comfortable with solitude ever again.
I am afraid I’ll never make it to Germany. I’m ultimately afraid I won’t be ready to die not having truly produced anything noteworthy.
I’m afraid I’ll never grow out of being selfish; I’m afraid I will grow out of being impulsive.
I’m afraid of repressing the parts of me that currently seem socially unacceptable and subsequently finding those same qualities in others after I’ve eroded most of mine away.
I am afraid of my parents dying.
I am afraid of being deprived and docile.