Answer:
I cannot be felt, seen or touched. Yet I can be found in everybody. My existence is always in debate. Yet I have my own style of music.
People are hired to get rid of me. I'm often hiding under your bed. In time I'll always return you see. Bite me and you're surely dead.
A red drum which sounds without being touched, and grows silent, when it is touched.
Two brothers we are, great burdens we bear. All day we are bitterly pressed. Yet this I will say, we are full all the day, and empty when go to rest.
Break me and I am better immediately set and harder to be broken again.