Random Riddle: 12-15-2016

When no muse is to be found,
Artists turn to me;
Marvel in my sights and sounds
And copy what they see.

Inventors ride upon my back,
Jump over truths that block the way;
In this way escape the track
And drag back home their prey.

Have me, use me, hold me dear
But never fall in love with me.
From me you have nothing to fear
Unless of course you trust me.

A child’s plaything,
An artist’s friend,
An inventor’s steed,
And sanity’s end.

What am I?