Many of me exist. No number is exact. I may be believed or argued, Though I am not a fact

To the superstitious, I'm worse than a shot of caffeine, But stop by a generous bakery and you might find luck unforeseen. I’ve deleted entire floors with my ominous sheen, Yet I'm just a number - what do YOU think I mean?

feeling disengaged or restless at best, this feeling can be hard to address. I come from no medium, no phone or external media, and my head is to full to decompress. I sit and write clues, to try and amuse, to beat out this feeling of dread.

Add an S to the end of the word and it becomes more then one. Add two S’s and you will end up with one. What is the word?

I live in silence, spread like seed, I shift the hearts of those who read. No chest to breathe, no lungs to feel. What am I that shapes the real?