Disclaimer: You have no idea how happy he is that I'm not really in charge.
Jonathan Crane believes in the mind's power. Its ability to help or hinder with all Fortune's faith, and he understands that his own remains fundamentally unbalanced. Somehow. He is not the Joker. He doesn't titter like a twit when some idiot teen stops twitching on the ground before him. He takes notes. And he doesn't smile.
Jonathan Crane tries to fortify his brain every way he can. The chemical responses of fear. The mental steps. Even literature (a pleasure, not passion) can be used to better understand terror. Repeating symbols. Sounds. Images. He knows to time his words against the pendulum, that speed matters more than volume, that it is your imagination that makes the dark worse. What you imagine people think and plan.
Yet Jonathan Crane remains afraid of his own study. In every eye lies an accusation, a raucous laugh, a secret he'll never hear. Unspoken words crowd his ears, unlaunched defenses clog his throat. Yes, a successful parry satisfies him. It festers, it yearns, it waits inside for the inevitable and nobody knows how goddamn nervous that makes him. Yes sir. Yes Dr. Crane. Dr. Scarecrow. DO THEY REALLY THINK HE DOESN'T KNOW?