Santa Claus wouldn’t want this to be on when he visits

I have a handle but no hands, and a belly full of other lands. Though I travel far and wide, I always stay by your side. What am I?

I can make hair rise without touching a comb, or send soldiers forward without naming a war. I may live on a card, hang over a courtroom, or be placed in someone’s care. I can fill what is empty, cost what is owed, or accuse without proving. Too much of me sparks danger, too little of me leaves you powerless. What am I?

The process starts with a wheel spinning fast, Onto it, a wet blobby lump is cast. As fingertips shape it and sharp edges loom, Without me, it never escapes muddy doom.

I may command a marching line, or speak in terms not broadly defined. In war I rank, in talk I blur, the same one word can both confer.