I don’t know why being fast food would be considered insulting!
A few years ago, I read an essay by a romance writer who openly admitted that her books were trashy, formulaic, and not Great Art. But what she said is that she gets fan letters all the time. From women with six kids whose only time for themselves is reading her books. From women in abusive relationships who read her books to give them hope that loving relationships exist. From women with depression who manage to eke out some pleasure reading her books. From women whose lives are awful and who read her books to give them the strength to live another day.
And– she points out– the writers of Great Art have many virtues, but they do not generally get fan letters from people whose lives are miserable and who seek out comfort and joy from the books. Because most of the time when our lives are awful, we don’t seek out Great Art. We seek out, well, literary fast food. We seek out emotionally manipulative hurt/comfort or fluffy coffeeshop AUs or Mutual Pining where there is Only One Bed.
Be proud of your work! Be proud of making literary fast food. Try to make the best damn literary fast food you can. Because somewhere out there– you might not know who, you might not know when– there might be someone who has just finished their last final, or who got fired from their job, or who is up all night with a newborn, and your fast food fanfic made their lives better. And that is no small thing.