For some reason most critics have a hard time fixing their minds directly under their noses, and before they see the object that is there they use a telescope upon the horizon to see where it came from.
The innocent mansion of a panther's heart!
So the poet, who wants to be something that he cannot be, and is a failure in plain life, makes up fictitious versions of his predicament that are interesting even to other persons because nobody is a perfect automobile salesman.
What is the poem, after it is written? That is the question. Not where it came from or why.
Other psychological theories say a good deal about compensation.