The real sting here isn't about nonconformity—it's about the terrible loneliness of having access to something others simply cannot perceive. Nietzsche isn't celebrating the dancer's freedom so much as describing the unbridgeable gap between inner experience and outer judgment, the way genuine passion will always look like madness to those standing outside it. A musician pouring years into a genre nobody around her appreciates doesn't need encouragement to ignore critics; she needs the harder thing—to keep believing her joy is real even when surrounded by bafflement—because doubt creeps in when you're the only one who hears the music.