Whenever I require a medical procedure of some sort, particularly when it involves needles or knives, I find myself ambivalent, at once coldly logical and unreasonably fearful. There is a disconnection between my perhaps overly rational thinking of necessity and how my body feels about potential pain or mutilation.
As a child, if I had to have blood drawn or get an injection, I would calmly inform the nurses they should call no less than four orderlies to wrap me up like a mummy and hold me down. This evoked incredulity. They never believed me until they found out I could knock the needle from their hands and fight off two grown men, or actively struggle with three. And they were always surprised.
I've since developed greater self control, more sophisticated means of subsuming my unthinking animal emotions. Typically, if someone asks me if I'm ready or calm before a treatment, I'll tell them I am, which might even be partially true. But my blood pressure levels and the colour of my knuckles will probably say otherwise.
A few years ago, I sliced open my finger, becoming light-headed with blood loss by the time I reached the ER. I played it cool right up until I passed out in the middle of getting stitches. That finger still feels weird in spots due to mild nerve damage, but I don't usually let it get in my way.