Insult to injury (well... inconvenience to illness)

My car is making a noise like a bad beatboxer has strapped a bass speaker to my axle and is practising his craft while I'm driving.
My wild guess is that my exhaust may be failing.
This is a pain that would normally be easily fixed, but in my run-down state of malaise it feels like a huge task that needs to be completed, and my old fears that surface when I have to speak to professional people who know more about something than I do have resurfaced again and I'm anticipating being made to feel stupid and being conned. I'm sure it's only a small hole, and I'm sure it's a simple procedure, but I'm also sure that they'll make me pay for a full replacement and charge me several hundred pounds. Why do I feel so unmanly and unknowledgeable when I have to face mechanics, or plumbers, or electricians? Maybe I consider them to be 'proper men' with 'proper jobs' while I'm just a poncy scientist who sits in an office at a holiday camp these days, talking to children's entertainers and ordering mix for the slush machine.

RC 9-3-23