I am everywhere except for where things are. The more of me you have, the less things you have. I surround the Earth yet I take up no room. What am I?

What is full of holes but still holds water?

Oh, sweet preserve of the pantry, a wobbly delight that dances with the dish, just like Gran’s favorite jig on a Sunday afternoon. A savory symphony of fruit, yet it shivers at the touch.

The world on its axis, A picture unlevel, A dog that's confused, and an edge that is beveled. What do they have in common?

I have four corners, stay flat on your desk, hold words or drawings, but crumple with stress. What am I?