Let me tell you a story.

There was a night, many, many years ago, when everything ended. Bugs aren’t that great at writing things down, so nobody really thought to record the particulars of the event, but the effects were lasting; no more pesticides, no more deforestation, no more fish hooks or bait boxes or flypaper. Pets ran free from newly-quiet houses, and roach motels showed nothing but vacancies.

The world hadn’t suddenly become safe - there were still stoats to contend with, and lizards, and snappy little plants. A bug might still meet their end on the beak of a bird, or (if they were particularly unlucky in the lottery of life) under the playful claws of a feline deity. But it had become safer, and though bugs may not be great at recording history, they’re pretty damn good at making the best of whatever situation they find themselves in.

So bugs, on the whole, flourished.
And the world opened up to them in return.