Finnick took the explanation as it was likely meant - as empathy and not as the doctor being dismissive. "I'm sorry about your dreams." And that was truthful; Finnick held eye contact, expression serious, for a few long moments. Real, not real, it didn't matter. He knew how they felt, and that was enough.
"...I dreamt I was the victor of the sixty-fifth annual Hunger Games. I volunteered; in my district, people sometimes trained from a very young age to participate. You weren't supposed to, not officially, but if you won the Games you'd earn extra rations for your District for a year and there was a real incentive to try and pull it off if you could. It was, uh. I'll spare you, but the worst part is wondering if you're really the kind of person who could do something like that. It's a dream, but god, what is wrong with me that my subconscious wants to loop this stuff for me?"