I'm a storage space, it's true, Sounding like an artist, through and through. What am I?

You will never guess me, just cant be done

A tiny shield with a silver crown, guards fingers from the needle's frown. Though small and round, it knows the art, of keeping stitches from the heart.

On one hand, I keep an eye out. On the other hand, the best of me are Swiss.

A bubbly crown on your latte delight, in seas and suds, soft and white. With a gentle touch, it quietly roams, found in waves and cappuccinos' domes.