I'm a hurried flurry, a bustling shove, A constant motion, pushed from above. I rhyme with muscle, but lack its brute force, Instead, clever tactics chart my swift course. What am I?

Flesh and bone, a mind that roams, masters of tools, yet builders of homes. From dust to dawn, stories we weave, in laughter and tears, our essence we leave.

Behind COVID's sealant for the face? You can bet on me.

From ancient seas to grains so small, I sit with pepper, known to all. A pinch of me can change the whole, awaken taste from dull to bold.

I have a face and two hands, but no arms or legs. I help you every day, but I never move on my own. What am I?