His phobia . . . (fear)

My teacher wrote this phrase on the board today in Creative Writing as a prompt. The following is what I wrote, very rough and totally unedited, but the idea is there.

My phobia . . .
of the elusive elipses. My irrational fear of a blank page, of the painful transportation of images from mind to pen and paper. A time-consuming block of vocabulary, preventing my overcrowded ideas from permanent preservation. An abhorred feeling creeps through, one of spending incredible amounts of time creating ensembles of words with minimal progress--confused that the pictures floating across my eyes are vomited onto the page, scattered and scantily clad.
Pretentious. A phobia of pretentiousness. That some self-sufficient, poetic peer would snort at the words that I struggled to write.
On the other hand . . .
I adore an elipses heading a page brimming with my hurried, inconsistent handwriting. Few things satisfy like a story finished or a poem accurately conveying my feelings.
For all the toil of writing, the euphoria is sweet enough to erase the past.