High or low, to be at the mercy of the moon

A golden shroud we seen in myth full of wonder and mystery man hid

Where streets meet in a grid, and stories unfold, A place of hustle, where tales are told. With shops and homes in a bustling mix, Life weaves through lanes, with tricky tricks.

My meds make it hard to count down from ten, I administer them solely to keep you from pain. I keep watch over vitals while ensuring you sleep, usually by the head, not near your smelly feet. What is this job you hate me for having to spell, that reduces your pain while others cut and more?

A man was asked to pick a number The man said no What number did he choose?