Oh ya...
I live out in the country, away from the bright lights that cover the city streets and background noise that persists in large, urban areas. I live around racoons that fight on my roof top, or the occasional cougar that stalks deer in my backyard. So, after a long writing session, when I wander into the bathroom to brush my teeth before bed I look out the back window into the black void the envelops my yard. I hear the sway of the trees from a light breeze, the chirp of chipmunks running loose among the branches, then a crack of a dead limb and all noise stops. That's when my head starts playing evil tricks on me and I scrub my teeth like a pneumatic paint mixer, until my gums are sore and my arm tires. I spit and rinse as quickly as possible before something sticks its snout against the flimsy screen dividing me from the unthinkable stalking my backyard. My wife asks what the hurry is as I dive into bed and I tell her because I love her. She doesn't always buy it.
Yes, writing can really amp up one's fright or flight responce mechanisms. Writing, what a rush.